


Natural Born Citizen

by OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink



Series: The Aristocrats AU [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, M/M, Other, Political AU, Psychological Torture, Stalking, Torture, Toxic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 43
Words: 290,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink/pseuds/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America’s 46th President Hannibal Lecter and First Lady Abigail Lecter invite you to a second feast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> lecter4president.tumblr.com
> 
> Unbeta'd

Freddy Lounds stood at the desk in his office, waiting for the call on his desk phone to go through; he was excited, glancing down at his phone to the cropped photo of Will Graham on the screen. The man had wires and tubes sticking out of his hospital gown, eyes shut and skin washed out by the bright overhead lights. He looked half dead—which Freddy could only assume he was—the clear plastic oxygen mask over his face fogged slightly. A very solemn looking Hannibal Lecter was sitting at his side, immaculate, but with furrowed brow. A stoic man devastated from the injury of a staffer and personal friend, the second assistant who’d been gravely injured under his watch. 

Decades from now, this photo would be iconic to the man’s presidency. It was a stolen moment, one that normal people would feel guilt over taking, but journalists possessed limited remorse over such matters. There was no doubt it had been obtained without permission—anyone could see that—which made it all the more valuable. Staged photos with politicians were a nightmare.

Oh, Freddy was just salivating to get the photo posted online and then across the front page of a special edition of the Gotham Tribune. He’d already been okayed for an emergency print run immediately with the image plastered as large as they could get it. It was beautiful. It was art. It was the Mona Lisa on a silver platter that was going to make the Gotham Tribune a household name for the next few weeks. 

And yes, there was always the risk that Lecter would be pissed enough to sue for the photo but it was a risk he was willing to take to get his newspaper back on top. Hell, the newspaper’s directors could see a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when it was present and had already agreed to take the plunge with what was about to happen. 

The phone finally answered and his daughter’s young and devious voice came on. “Hello, Dad.”

He grinned, sparing any greetings. “Junior, fifteen thousand.”

He didn’t have to see her to know she was pleased. “No, thirty.”

He lowered his voice and quickly told her, “I am authorised for twenty. Nothing more.”

There was honour among thieves and loyalty to family—he knew that she knew he’d work with her the best he could, that he didn’t mind spending the newspaper’s money to get a story.

“I need some new equipment,” she said after a few seconds, an accepting of the money, but a desire to cover the loss of the extra ten grand. 

He could easily commandeer the unused surveillance electronics from the equipment room and pass it over to her during the family’s usual Sunday dinner together. “Got it.” 

Now she wasn’t hiding her smugness. “Wire transfer?”

His grin broadened with pride. “Consider it done, Freddie.”

*****

**TWELVE HOURS EARLIER.**

There were six liters of whole blood and two litres of source plasma in the special cooler at the back of Cadillac One, all from Hannibal’s body in the event he was injured and needed a transfusion. The stock piling of his blood had started last year on the campaign trail and now he had enough to fill his body a second time over. The rest of the blood bags were frozen in a secure section of the White House, waiting to replace anything that had to be used, such as they would be tonight.  

Hand firmly attempting to staunch the blood gushing out of Will’s body, he motioned for Katz and two other agents to help him lift Will off the hard surface of the Meyerhoff’s stage. “We will take him in the Presidential motorcade. Get the blood in the trunk ready.” The warmth and wetness under his palm angered him—what a waste of his beautiful Will—the slick red blood draining out onto the dirty floor. “Will? Can you hear me?” Will’s mouth was slack, his head limp. “Patient is non-responsive—yes, thank you, Agent Katz.”

As Katz handed him a scarf she had on to press to the entrance wound, Price tried to say no to what Hannibal wanted. “Mr President, we can’t use that blood—“

Hannibal gave him a steely look, allowing his human mask to disappear for a moment. “We will use my blood. I’m not going to ask you again.”

Price nodded and called ahead to the agents waiting outside at the cars, giving the orders that an agent had discharged his weapon and that Will Graham had been shot. Quickly they carried Will out of the Meyerhoff, past the shocked janitor, and out to the waiting motorcade. Will was laid out on the floor of the armoured vehicle, Hannibal crouched over him. He shed his jacket and unbuttoned his cuffs to roll up his shirt sleeves, by which time the cooler with his blood was produced, ready for immediate transfusion; Hannibal was a universal donor and Will was the same blood type, so Hannibal felt no worries of giving him the lifesaving fluids. Sirens screamed on the outside and the motorcade kicked into high gear, nearly throwing him off balance.

Agent Price was calling into Kick’s, Hannibal’s former place of work, yelling over the noise and confusion that a Code One was in operation, this is not a drill, clear the waiting room, one adult male shot, we’re going to be at the door! Katz was at his side, speaking to Will reassuringly and Agent Zeller was noticeably absent, no doubt on his way back to the White House for an immediate questioning and debriefing of what had happened.

Hannibal quickly began to put this new blood into Will’s body, attempting to compensate what had already been lost. This was better than any fantasy; ever since August when Abigail had wanted her symbolic exchange of blood between the three of them out on the ocean, he’d dwelt on the thought of more and more of his own body being grafted to Will’s, pieces of flesh traded between them, whether for living or eating. Perhaps removing kidneys for a first anniversary and dining on them, cherishing the feeling of having something eternally inside the other. He’d even had a dream of switching tongues with him, wanting to taste a world through Will’s senses, to try to tame those words, sophisticate that palate. 

But this…he was living within Will, coursing through the arteries in his legs, the veins in his hands, the capillaries of his eyes. With his empathy, Will could call himself the Chesapeake Ripper and Hannibal would be helpless to stop him, because how could he argue with himself? The other side to his coin and Hannibal wished to lean in to kiss him, though recognised it would be nothing more than a distraction at this point. Taking the younger man’s pulse, he noted his heart was beating faintly, but he was no longer breathing on his own and as though all of Hannibal’s wishes were to be granted tonight, he realised he could lean down and begin to perform artificial respiration; his heart was beginning to beat faster—finally—at the excitement of death so close and yet still under his control. Quickly he instructed Price to elevate the new bag of blood and then pinched Will’s nose closed so he could form a seal around Will’s mouth with his own, blowing firmly into his lungs. He was certain their was a bag valve mask in the medical supplies, but this was so much more intimate. 

His mind was a million blissful miles away as he shared all of himself with Will—air, blood, soul—pausing only to attach the third liter bag, distantly aware that blood loss this quickly was almost a certain death sentence. Katz was still pressing firmly on Will’s gunshot wound, red seeping between her fingers and around her palm. Price was speaking into his wrist to the driver, the agents in the other vehicles, to the relay station at the White House, his voice calm, but an octave higher than usual. And time had stopped for Hannibal, only the ringing of nothingness in his ears as he wondered if Will was to die here; he wiped the saliva on his lips with fingers before leaning back over the man he loved most in this horribly small and boring world, counting each second and taking his wrist to feel the steady but faint pulse. 

He bumped his teeth against Will’s as they drove up onto the curb in front of the ambulance entrance at Kick’s and he grunted slightly at the uncomfortable feeling, but pulled his mouth away to assist in getting Will onto the gurney waiting at the doors in anticipation of their arrival. There was no doubt that the clinic was expecting it to be he that was injured, prepared for the worst scenario that the President of the United States was dying at their doorsteps. Instead, he, Katz, and Price were attempting to lift Will out of the massive armoured vehicle and maintain pressure on the heavy bleeding whilst keeping the fourth bag of blood aloft. 

The nurses standing at the door with the gurney were for the most part professional, placing their attention on Will rather than on him, though they occasionally looked up at him with fearful eyes. He forced himself to place the most neutral expression he could find, but he supposed his eyes looked too wild at this point, though there was nothing wrong with that—it could later be attributed to panic and not fervour. The Clinic was a flurry of activity and amongst the nurses, he noted a few familiar faces, though his attention was too focused on Will to think of names or what rank they’d held when he’d last worked here. 

A bag valve mask was produced and placed over Will’s mouth and nose, and Hannibal licked his lips, mourning the loss of contact and savouring the lingering taste of their saliva. 

A familiar doctor ran forward, eyes wide and face pale. “Hannibal are you—“

Hannibal ignored her, keeping his complete focus on Will instead. “Will, we’re at the Clinic now. If you can hear me, please squeeze my fingers.”

No response. That was fine. Hannibal had worked with less. 

Ever the leader, Hannibal easily fell back into the role of head surgeon of the Clinic, dominating those around him with the confidence he’d always had; he began to verbally assess the injury, his hand still on Will’s as the group moved swiftly alongside the gurney, nearly running. There were a million things he wanted to do—clip Will’s nails and scrub beneath them to prevent any bacteria from contaminating the open wound; taste the blood still pumping out of his shoulder and out his back to see if he could find any traces of Will left at all; inspect the backgrounds of the attendants to make sure they were competent to accompany him into the OR; have an x-ray taken to view if the bullet had left shrapnel or sent bone fragments throughout his body; steal him away to a private room to look him over, memorise every single dying inch—but that wasn’t going to be possible if he was fix that artery that was open in Will’s shoulder. And he felt a seething irritation in the pit of his stomach at those surrounding him for staring at his face wide-eyed, _confused_. 

Quickly giving orders to the nurses to prepare the OR he preferred, he noted his hands were covered in tacky blood as he effectively removed his watch, slipping it into his pocket, before placing his fingers at the inside of Will’s wrist, trying to find a pulse. Nothing. That was fine. Hannibal had worked with less. He was calculating the amount of time it would take to disinfect his hands and have a nurse slip his scrubs and gloves on before he entered the operating room, when two hands grabbed him by the shoulders, effectively stopping him from passing through the double swinging doors that led into the hall that contained the operating rooms. 

He nearly struck the person who had prevented him from continuing with Will and realised he’d forgotten for a moment who he was now.

Agent Price still had a hold on him. “I’m sorry, Mr President—“

Words tumbled out of his mouth, an eight year old confident he could protect his sister. “I can fix it.”

“Yes, but there are doctors here. Let them do their job.” Price gave him a kind but tired smile, still holding onto him. It was pity for a man whose lover had been injured and anger flared in Hannibal at Price and at himself before he carefully discarded the emotion—it had no use here at the moment. “Come on—we should go to the waiting room.”

They went into a secured waiting room that was usually saved for the families of surgery patients. He allowed himself to be sat in one of the chairs, feigning shock. That was what humans did, didn’t they? The room was uncomfortably quiet, the walls and glass doors muffling the sounds of the voices outside. 

“Do you want me to have Abigail brought?” Price was asking him, a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder.

Hannibal managed a dazed look at him. “No. She needs to rest.” 

Price nodded and sat down beside him, staring. Katz was outside the door, talking to Baltimore PD who were glancing curiously into the waiting room. Agent Zeller was still noticeably absent. 

A familiar face: Tony, a nurse who’d been present when Hannibal had been the head surgeon of the clinic, had appeared, his face pale as he rushed through the waiting room door, then paused, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. 

“Hannibal.” 

Hannibal stood, grateful to get out of the chair. “Tony.”

This had the unfortunate social cue of indicating he would accept physical contact and the other man surged forward, initiating an awkward hug. Tony took a step back, his eyes scouring Hannibal’s face. 

“Are you all right? You’ve got blood on your face.”

Ah. That would explain everyone’s expressions when they’d seen him enter the Clinic. “Oh, I hadn’t realised—“

“Just stay here, okay?”

Hannibal hadn’t even processed the scent of blood, but now that he realised it was there, the rich iron smell reached his nostrils; he frowned slightly, disappointed that was going to be taken shortly and not on his own terms. He glanced up at the convex mirror in the corner of the ceiling and noted there was blood on his face from where Will’s hand had touched him and Smeared slightly on his lips and chin when he’d wiped a wrist earlier. 

Tony returned and pulled over in a chair beside him, swabbing at the blood on Hannibal’s face; there was more of it than Hannibal had realised, noting the amount of damp cotton balls that were being used, stained a red and pink. 

“So you’re president now.” Tony’s eyes were intent on the job at hand, no doubt looking for any sign of injury, which was good as that was his duty.

“Yes.” Hannibal loathed small talk, even though he knew it was there to make him feel safe. 

“How’s Abigail?”

He didn’t like the scent of the antiseptic and tucked his lips into his mouth for a moment, licking off the last of the blood while his chin was cleaned. “She’s well, thank you for asking.”

The nurse finally sat back, peeling off his nitrile gloves to discard into the hazardous waste bin beside his left leg. “He’ll be okay, Hannibal. You did everything you could. You did a good job,” he reassured. “Do you mind if I have someone check you over for injuries? I know your assistant was shot and I don’t know the exactly what happened…” He looked uneasy. “I just don’t want you to…need medical help and not get it. I know that shock can numb us.”

Tony offered him a gentle smile, taking care not to offend him—nurses weren’t supposed to upset patients, after all. Hannibal nodded, knowing it was inevitable and now would be the perfect time, considering how long of a wait he had ahead of him. Will wouldn’t be out of surgery for hours.

“Have an exam room readied. I’m sure it would put my Secret Service agents at ease,” he instructed. 

Tony stood and nodded. “Right. Any particular doctor?”

“If Grace Holtzbrinck is available tonight—“

“Yeah, let me get her.” He placed a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder and gave him a comforting smile. “You just sit here and relax.”

Tony waltzed out, carrying the supplies he’d brought with him into the waiting room  and Hannibal exhaled softly through his nose, the only outward sign he was losing patience in the situation that was unfolding.

Beside him, Price offered. “We can call—“

Hannibal didn’t find interruptions polite, but he was not looking for anymore White House interference at the moment. The Clinic he had more influence over. “No. I’ll accept Dr Holtzbrinck. She’s more than adequate at her job and is not a gossip.”

Price nodded and patted Hannibal on the back. “Will’s a fighter. He’ll pull through.” 

Hannibal wondered how long he’d be subjected to the overly familiar touches of everyone around him, but nodded regardless. _Enduring_. Dr Holtzbrinck arrived shortly, greying around the temples and wearing a slightly wrinkled doctor’s coat. 

“Hannibal, how are you?” She gave him a crooked smile that lacked any humour. 

“It’s been quite a night,” he replied simply as he allowed her to lead him to an exam room, Agents Price and Bonham following.

There was a pause as the room was cleared, then he stepped inside, shutting the door behind them as the agents stood guard outside. 

“Okay, I need to check you for any injuries, so if you’d like to undress behind that screen, you may.” She motioned to the cloth covered metal frame and sat down on a rolling stool, looking over a clipboard. Hannibal shed his clothing and slipped on a faded hospital gown, noting that his hands were covered in his lover’s blood which would have to be washed away momentarily. 

“Your assistant seems to be okay. Recessitated on the first try,” she called out.

“I’m relieved to hear that.” And he was. “I see nothing amiss.”

She made an amused noise. “While I believe you, you know I can’t sign off on that.”

It was true and he respected that, stepping out from behind the curtain to sit on the pap

“Would you mind if I washed my hands? I didn’t realise…” he trailed off, knowing she would interpret the way he spoke as something 

“Sure, sure.” Her brow furrowed, as though she could only imagine how ‘traumatic’ it must be for him to have to wash the blood of an employee off his hands.

He scrubbed and lathered his hands, allowing his disappointment to show as he watched the last of Will spiral down the drain. Once his hands were dried, he sat on the paper covered exam table. She jotted down a few more notes on the file in hand, then began her preliminary examination, starting with his hands.

“What happened here?” She frowned at the scar across his palm. 

“Summer holiday.” 

She nodded, moving up his arms, scanning for any signs of bruising or wounds otherwise. “Any nerve damage?”

“None. It was shallow.” He’d been very careful about that. 

“Good.” After his arms were deemed fine, she began to check his legs, testing the reflexes. “No pain anywhere?”

“No.”

“Excellent.” She moved around the side of the exam table, opening the back of his gown to check his back, fingers searching for any bruises or pain; then she had him lie back on the exam table, rolling the gown down to check his chest and abdomen. As he’d told her earlier, there was nothing amiss. 

“You’re okay,” she finally declared, smiling in obvious relief. “Not a scratch on you. Thank god.”

He smiled in return, and she turned to exit the exam room. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

“Thank you.” 

He shut the door after her and allowed the mask to drop. Standing in socks and underwear wasn’t how he wanted to spend Will’s time in surgery. Judging how the Clinic had been run in his absence, there was was a high likelihood that if he asked to stand in the operating theatre and watch the proceedings, he’d be denied, it being assumed that he wasn’t mentally in a space to watch, that perhaps he was in shock. In reality, he was simply feeling impatient to be kept from what was his. 

There was a knock on the door and Hannibal quickly slipped the hospital gown on again, holding it shut at the back with one hand. At the door was Tony, holding a hastily folded set of doctor’s scrubs. 

“I, uh, thought you might want to change into something…different.” 

Right, because people didn’t want to wear their paramour’s blood as a sign of ownership. Hannibal would be saving the shirt and suit regardless of their current state—to treasure the sight of the blood on the material, of course. But the scrubs were an acceptable alternatives for now.

“Thank you,” he said softly, accepting the freshly laundered spares the Clinic kept on hand.

He closed the door gently before anything more could be said. The scrubs were comfortable and clean, smelling of the familiar disinfectants in the Clinic, bringing him back to a headspace before Will or Abigail had existed in his life. Sterile, dry, chemical—he breathed in deeply. Will would smell of these things soon, erasing part of the identity Hannibal had come to love so deeply. But it would be temporary and he’d be able to map the changes back to the distinct underlying identity of Will Graham.

That he would want to take care of in a bed. The Lincoln bedroom on the opposite side of the Residence, where he could keep the injured man tucked in soft blankets and breathe him in during the dark of night, identifying every individual note that returned to his body. He smiled at the thought of Will lying beneath him, smiling up at him sleepily as Hannibal whispered what he observed. 

He loved Will. He truly did. And it was so painfully apparent that he didn’t enjoy the thought of a world without him, now that he had time to truly appreciate what he’d nearly lost him. Will had shown him tonight that he understood the true Hannibal, that they weren’t alone anymore because all the barriers between them had been brought down and there was no need to hide anymore. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end at the pleasant acknowledgement of this new type of intimacy. 

As he dressed in the scrubs, he evaluated his mental state. At the moment he felt many things:

a) He felt relief that Will had wanted him in Baltimore to discuss what he’d done for him.

b) He felt conflicted in his desire to leave the hospital and watch the proceedings with Agent Zeller’s fall from grace. 

c) He felt like baking a chocolate cake with a raspberry mousse. 

d) He felt worried that Will might still succumb to his wounds despite all the care he’d given him from the moment he’d been shot to the time he’d been taken into the Clinic. He could accept Will would die one day, but this wasn’t a particularly pleasing way to go.

Slipping his folded clothing into one of the plastic bags given to patients for their belongings, he exited the exam room and allowed himself to be escorted by Price, Katz, and Bonham. Standing in the waiting room was Tony once more, holding a paper cup which he immediately offered out to Hannibal.

“I remembered you like tea,” Tony said and Hannibal looked down into the cup he’d accepted to see something believing itself to be raspberry tea steaming upwards with an abrasively chemical smell. 

“Oh, thank you. It’s very considerate of you.”

Tony was obviously trying to keep his mind off Will’s operation, a sympathetic gesture that any emotionally invested nurse might do for another and as they sat down across from one another, effectively ignoring the Secret Service milling around, Hannibal pondered why there was such an insistence to handling him with kid gloves? This night must have reminded him—along with the other members of the Clinic—of what had happened twelve years previous with Abigail.

Ah, they all saw sensitive, heroic Hannibal. Always the Kennedys’ fragile teacup, putting others before himself.How sweet. Having nothing else to do while he waited for Will to emerge from surgery, he decided to entertain the other man and inquire about the Clinic, his questions on autopilot as he mused instead about how Will had brought a knife to his throat. But before he could venture too far down that path, the agents in the room all turned towards the west as if they heard something he couldn’t (they were wearing earpieces after all) and Hannibal wondered what was to come. Apparently not a threat, but—

“Bedelia,” he murmured, standing as his cousin was flanked by her agents and entered the waiting room. 

Bedelia’s face was pale and drawn and she stepped forward to him quickly, arms outstretched to gather him into an embrace. 

“Hannibal.” Her voice betrayed the concern she felt of his condition, which was unnecessary as the situation had definitely been explained to her on the drive from Washington DC to Maryland. Had he really been here over an hour?

“You’re all right.” Her hold around him tightened and she hissed in his ear. “I thought I told you that I _never_ wanted you here again.”

“Bedelia, I’m fine.”

“You don’t belong in hospitals. Forcing me to worry. How rude,” she said venomously for only him to hear, trying to force a repentant reaction from him. _Amusing_. 

“I apologise, dearest cousin. It wasn’t my intention to cause you worry.”

She took a step back and looked him over, nose wrinkling in disgust. “What are you wearing?”

“My clothing had blood on it,” he replied, knowing that any polyester/cotton blend would be offensive to her. “These are _spares_ the Clinic kindly loaned me.”

Bedelia closed her eyes, breathing in deeply as though physically pained. An honest smile came to Hannibal’s lips; seeing her discomfort was undoubtably one of the few things in his life that brought him absolute pleasure. 

“My dearest cousin, my Bedelia, I am uninjured.”

“Yes.” She glanced him over again, a confused gleam in her eye. “Why are you still here? Has a doctor looked you over?”

“I have been checked quite thoroughly by a doctor,” he replied, succumbing to the urge to straighten imagined wrinkles from the front of the scrubs. “I’m here because Will is in surgery.” 

She looked at him the same way she always did when she didn’t understand his motivation for human reactions. “They are going to have field day with this, you know. I’ve worked so hard to keep any scandal away from this administration and now…” Her nostrils flared slightly. This was the Bedelia he missed from his youth, the one who had no fear of scolding him or making demands because she had no fear of him. She was passionate and angry, full of the burn left behind by dry ice. “It was enough that that stupid girl took your spawn to that party and I had to listen to speculation that the First Lady wasn’t any better than those little cocksucking Bush twins—after all I’ve done to make her a _Kennedy_ —but now a third employee in less than a year in office that’s become a liability and _you_. _Were_. **_There_**.” There was unspoken meaning in the words, that she had no doubt that he hadbeen present at the others and he’d simply been caught this time. “How am I supposed to get our names wreathed in laurels if you can’t keep out of _trouble_?”

Scolding. How adorable. “I assure you it wasn’t Will’s intention to be shot, Bedelia.”

“He had a knife!” she snarled, though her voice was quiet.

“It is no matter,” he promised. “You’re upset and you should be at Observatory One, sleeping.” He gently kissed her cheek just below her left eye, leaving no room for argument as he maneuvered her towards the door. 

She looked at him, seething, but she straightened her hair and jacket before giving everyone in the room a curt smile, her eyes meeting no ones and then she was gone. 

*****


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd.

Hannibal sat beside the hospital bed in the darkened room, certain that to anyone who saw him in this moment would have no doubt of his feelings for Will Graham. Surgery had taken longer than expected due to the broken pieces of bone that had fragmented in Will’s shoulder, but finally the trauma surgeon that had been on duty that night had arrived to the waiting room and with a relieved smile, announced the operation had been a success. 

Hannibal had mimicked the actions he’d seen hundreds of times in the waiting room after a successful surgery and smiled, looking upwards as though thanking god. Jack—who’d arrived not long after Bedelia had left—had buried his face in his hands and had laughed amidst his tears. The agents in the room had sighed, exchanging glances that suggested that they were more happy for Zeller’s sake than Will’s. Afterwards, Will had received x-rays at Hannibal’s insistence to determine nothing had been left behind and then had been admitted to a private room one floor above the room Abigail had once occupied. 

At the moment, his hand rest atop Will’s, meditating on the soft breathing and the rhythm of the cardiac monitor. Will’s eyes were shut, resting once more; he’d awoken briefly after the surgery, but his eyes hadn’t been very focused and he’d slurred out a few words before succumbing to his exhaustion and medication once more. Hannibal had found it mesmerising and then demanded that the room remain empty, including the presence of agents, even raising his voice enough at his senior agent to make his point made. But that was all for selfish reasons—he would never share Will’s vulnerabilities with another. They were for him alone.

His hours in solitude with Will had come with a problem, however: he knew the longer he kept Will to himself, the greater the repercussions would be for allowing Abigail to sleep in—she would have wanted to be woken for this news the moment it had happened and he’d instead kept her oblivious. At this delicate time, he couldn’t afford any cracks in their relationship. Just last night, he and Abigail had had a very tense dinner together.

“Do you think…” she’d started, staring forlornly down at the Waygu beef and human heart slices arranged artfully on the plate he’d set before her.

“What, my flower?”

“Do you think we broke him?” she had asked softly, unable to raise her eyes to him. 

He’d felt his heart soften at her naïveté. “Do you think Will is capable of breaking?”

She pushed her food about on her plate, not committing to eating quite yet. “I think everyone is.”

“Nonsense. The three of us can’t be broken. We don’t have the same boundaries that others have.” 

“You shouldn’t have pushed the jokes. It scared him,” she’d scolded, the tears finally rolling down her cheeks.

He’d cut another piece of the tender beef, bringing it to his lips. “Please don’t cry, Abigail. It affects the taste of the food.”

“Aren’t you…” She stared at him, horrified. “Sad?”

Hannibal had realised immediately he’d miscalculated what she was upset about—she hadn’t been feeling failure that their plan been spoilt, she was frustrated that they’d been the sabotage in their own game—and he had found an expression to mirror her own. A large tear had escaped his left eye and he allowed his lashes to lower for a moment, repentant. 

“Of course I am.”

He had known she was aware his expression was false, but it had comforted her that she was no longer the only one crying over Will. “Thank you.” 

“It was my fault for having a sense of humour,” he had been willing to admit, his lips turning upwards into a sad smile.

“It was funny,” she had assured him as hehad handed her his handkerchief so she could dry her eyes. 

Mind back in the present, Hannibal looked back down at his watch, checking that there was still a good half hour before Abigail was supposed to be awake and decided that his time alone with Will had gone on long enough; he found his phone and dialed the private line to Abigail. It took her three rings to answer, during which time he stroked a fingertip along Will’s knuckles.

Her voice was still sleep saturated and he could imagine her eyes still half-shut. “…Daddy?”

“Good morning, Abigail,” he greeted quietly, not wanting to give away anything just yet.

“Are you downstairs?”

He glanced down at his fingernails. “No. I’m in Baltimore at the moment, at Kick’s. Will has been shot.”

“What?” She was definitely awake now.

“He’s out of surgery and should be waking up soon.”

He could hear her feet hitting the carpeted floor beside her bed. “I need to be there.”

“Of course. Get dressed and—“

“Are you—“

“I’m fine,” he assured her.

“I love you,” she told him quickly and then hung up.

He could forgive her for not using proper phone etiquette as it was a very exciting morning; after all, she’d never had this type of experience before, seeing a loved one hurt. He would have to train her in the future to not reveal her emotions so openly, however. Hannibal stood and checked Will once more, even though he was well aware that nothing had changed since he’d last touched him, then proceeded to nudge his chair two feet further from the bed, a respectable distance that indicated they were friends, not lovers. Jack had suggested it when he’d arrived up to the room, but Hannibal hadn’t wanted to follow the advice just yet. 

And perhaps the timing had been perfect, fated. As he returned to his seat, the door opened and keeping the appearance that his entire focus was on Will, he watched the nurse who entered with a tray. He tensed slightly, distinctly aware that the nurse behind him was not a nurse, but in fact Freddie Lounds in disguise. Hannibal could only assume that the incorrigible Miss Lounds was taking photographs of Will and himself, which was fine—years from now he would be able to look back fondly on a treasured moment from the eyes of someone else, the only person clever enough to get in to watch. 

Careful to maintain that distance from Will, he began a performance of a solemn man, a human version of himself that the world could look at and see sadness. The country needed more sadness and Will was worthy of having a nation mourn over him alongside the First Family. A beautiful martyr for ‘The Cause’, which was an abstract feeling that his supporters believed in—it wasn’t anything real, just something Jack had come up with so that voters felt as though they were able to make a difference by electing him in November. And now they would personally feel wronged that something had happened so close to him. Rumours would swirl and build that this was an attack against him, driving a further wedge between his opponents and his administration, which was fine as he liked the conflict. 

It was good to be Hannibal Lecter.

The door to the hospital room opened a second time and he heard Freddie turn around, busying herself with something on the table beside the door to the bathroom, so as to keep her face hidden from the Secret Service agent.

“Mr President, the First Lady is in route.”

“Thank you, Agent Bonham.”

Freddie quietly slipped out the door behind the agent and he wondered how long it would be before the images reached the national spotlight. He hoped it would be soon. And Bonham would need to be fired for this oversight.

“If you wouldn’t mind…?” He gestured to the door.

“Sorry, Mr President ” the agent replied before leaving. 

Twenty minutes later, Will awoke slowly, peacefully, the same way he had on the August mornings in Hyannis Port. The sunlight slipping through the vertical blinds created bars across Will’s face and Hannibal momentarily thought of the bars of prison cell, which seemed befitting their current feelings for one another—both had the power to ruin the other’s life if they so wished to pull away. Trapped together.

Hannibal smiled.

Will’s eyes opened, the fan of lashes rising unevenly as his lips parted and his fingers twitched. Hannibal stood to loom over him, wanting to be the first thing the other man saw, carefully guiding his face back towards Hannibal. He waited to speak until Will’s eyes showed recognition. 

“You’re alive,” Hannibal murmured softly, brushing the curls that had become stiff with sweat from the motorcade ride to the clinic. 

Will licked at his lips and Hannibal poured water into a plastic cup, holding it to Will’s lips, letting him drink. Once his mouth was no longer dry, Will murmured,

“I was shot.”

Hannibal nodded once. “Yes. You were in surgery.”

Will exhaled, his mind not slow for a second. “They thought I was trying to kill you.”

“Were you?” Hannibal asked curiously. The answer would delight him either way.

“I don’t remember. I don’t know what were my thoughts and what were yours.”

Hannibal believed him. “A pity.”

“Don’t touch me,” Will said with the first signs of emotion, a lukewarm venom.

Hannibal removed his hand, noting the small jump in Will’s pulse from the EKG. “Abigail should be arriving shortly.”

Will didn’t respond to that. “Who shot me?”

“Agent Zeller.” Hannibal paused a breath, then asked, “Would you like him punished?”

“No. Maybe he was stopping me from killing you,” Will muttered, his eyes leaving Hannibal’s to dart about the room.

“I do not require protection from you,” Hannibal said cooly; he could still feel that sharp blade against his throat. 

Will blinked rapidly as his voice heated. “That’s not what I said.”

“Isn’t it? That you could have killed me if Agent Zeller hadn’t shot you?” Hannibal kept his tone polite, though he knew Will was aware he was being snide. 

“Why do you—why are you making this an argument? I don’t want to fight.” Will turned his head away defiantly. “I don’t even _want_ you here.”

“Well, I’m here now and you need someone at your side.” Hannibal mimicked a gentle tone, expressing his tolerance for Will’s current attitude. 

“Anyone but you.”

“Will.” He fought the urge to touch Will’s face again.

The other man tried manners to get his way. “Please leave.”

“I’m afraid I must refuse your request, sweet boy,” he said kindly and because if Will was to suffer, he wanted to be the reason for it, so he offered, “Do you need more morphine?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes, please.”

Hannibal quickly adjusted the flow of the drip line so that a fraction more of the clear liquid entered Will’s bloodstream. It was fascinating that Will seemed to battling the desire to reject him and fold himself into Hannibal’s presence, two very opposing feelings at war without one mind; he wondered how deeply his own emotions to the situation were affecting Will’s.

“You look tired. Perhaps you should rest.” Will’s eyes still watched him hesitantly and Hannibal smiled wolfishly. “You don’t want to be alone with me.”

“No.” 

“Are you worried I might bite?” Hannibal leaned his face in quickly and while the reaction was delayed, Will still flinched. Amused, Hannibal playfully reminded him, “Don’t you remember that it was _you_ had to ask for me to use my teeth?”

“Get away from me,” Will hissed.

Hannibal looked down at Will’s bandaged shoulder. “You will have a scar from this.”

Will’s lips held the start of a sneer. “Thanks for the insight, _Doctor_.”

“Our scars remind us of our past, Will—“

“Is that why you chose to have your hands fixed?”

Hannibal’s hands clenched slightly and he was aware his expression darkened momentarily. Will’s own body responded in kind, his eyes widening and his heart rate monitor beeping quicker, betraying his fear, his excitement at seeing Hannibal’s mask slip. Before the moment could progress any further, there was a quiet knock on the door and he left Will’s side to cross the room. Opening the door, he saw Abigail and Agent Matthews standing between the agents standing guard otherwise; a wave of something greasy and rank filled his nostrils and his eyes narrowed in on a paper bag she had in her hand. McDonald’s.

He stood aside to allow Abigail in and his daughter quickly murmured to her agent that she wanted to be alone. Shutting the door behind her, Hannibal didn’t have time to congratulate himself for successfully secluding his family from the outside world. 

“Hi, Dad. How are you?” Abigail asked, smiling at him. He gave no response and her smile wilted slightly, so she attempted to gain his favour with food, holding up the paper bag she was carrying. “I brought you breakfast.”

Will turned his head away to look out the window, not giving her any response. Hannibal watched his daughter’s face in interest; he would never ignore her greeting and he’d certainly never disrespect her by not accepting an offered gift. She looked shocked and wanting to have the potential experience of rejection to occur in tiers, Hannibal touched his daughter’s shoulder. 

“If he eats now, he’ll become sick,” Hannibal explained gently; as deeply as he felt for Will, that rooted instinct of protecting Abigail was stronger yet.

She nodded and set it on a table beside the door. “I’ll put it right here.”

She took a step forward and Will—the electronic pulse jumped quickly—warned her,

“ _Don’t_.”

Abigail withdrew, brow furrowed. “Are you in pain? Because I’m sure Daddy can get you more morphine, if you want it,” she suggested. Will said nothing and she bit her bottom lip. “Um…” It was almost pathetic that she’d been reduced to fishing for responses. “Is there anything you want that I could get you?”

“Yes. You can both _leave_.”

“Will,” Hannibal chastised, keeping the warning as civil as possible; it wouldn’t do for Abigail to see them fighting in front of one another again.

But Abigail’s entire focus was on the man lying in the bed and she hadn’t taken his unspoken hint not to press the issue. “You’re hurt and you’re family. We’re not leaving.” Her frown deepened. “Why are you crying?”

“I don’t want you anywhere near me. Either of you!” His voice shook, betraying the tears that had started to fall.

Abigail looked pained herself and Hannibal’s mind screamed, _‘She has your empathy, Will!’_

“You’d rather be here all alone?”

“Yes!” Will was crying earnestly at this point, sounding weak and exhausted. 

Hannibal allowed a frown to his lips so that Abigail felt valid in her sadness. Guiding her back to the door (and handing her the bag of McDonald’s) he said kindly, “Will is tired, my love. Perhaps we should allow him some rest.”

“Oh. Okay.” She didn’t look so sure.

He rubbed a hand reassuringly down her back, projecting confidence. “I’ll stay with him.”

And there was the spark of relief he’d hoped for, comfortable that Will would have a provider, someone to keep him safe. “Good. I’m going to call Aunt Bee. She will want to know how you’re doing.”

“Of course, my love. Thank you.”

She took one last look at Will’s bed and then mouthed, “Text me when he wakes up.” 

He nodded, adding another reassuring smile before he shut the door behind her. Hannibal turned his attention back to Will, who was nearly asleep again, whimpering softly against his pillow with the last of his remaining tears; Hannibal set a hand lightly on Will’s left knee, rubbing through the blanket. It would be soothing and he needed the other man to continue associating him with comfort.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter this week. Expect the next one to be considerably longer!


	3. Chapter Three

Abigail stood and stared at lobby at the east side of the clinic; Barney stood behind her, a hand resting heavily on her shoulder, but she didn’t lean back against him. It was important to assert her strength here in this room where she’d had her first life stolen from her. The lobby had been remodeled shortly afterwards through a sizable donation from the Clinic’s board of directors; she couldn’t actually remember what the lobby had originally looked like and had never asked her father. It wasn’t necessary information and she quickly added the room to her memory palace, then placed a heavy lock on the door; she could explore it later when she was better prepared, but for now it was something that made her uncomfortable.

Georgia arrived, looking concerned; she probably wanted to see Will, but Abigail wasn’t going to share him with her assistant. Instead, she’d passed off the duty of getting her aunt on the phone to the other woman; Aunt Bee seemed to be fielding calls from concerned family members who were hearing the news of the President being involved in a shooting and while she appreciated the concern, Mrs Crawford had already issued an emergency White House press release stating that the President was fine, but a White House employee had been injured, and no, they weren’t going to give any other information for the time being. That had been at four this morning and she’d watched a replay of the White House app on her iPad on the ride over; Bella Crawford had looked exhausted and tense as she spoke to the camera and ignored the shouted questions from the Press Corp. 

But it hadn’t answered any of Abigail’s questions and while she was aware that everyone was frustrated over that, Will belonged to her and if anyone ought to know what had happened, it was her.

Behind her, Georgia tried to get her attention. “Abi—“

“We’re in public,” she said curtly, just barely keeping her expression from becoming nasty.

Georgia held over Abigail’s phone. “First Lady, it’s your aunt.”

Abigail morphed into the prim niece she was expected to be as she spoke into the phone. “Hello, Aunt Bee.”

“Abigail, how nice for you to call me. How’s Hannibal? Did he tell you when he was planning on coming back to the White House?”

Abigail turned around and began to walk down the hallway, wanting to create privacy, even though she had an entourage that was more than a handful trailing behind her. “He’s fine. Distraught that Will has been hurt, of course.”

“But he’s not hurt and that’s what’s important,” her aunt said conversely as though they were discussing nothing more than the weather.  

“Anyway, when I come back to the house later, I need to talk to you about what happened. Damage control.”

Her aunt hummed in agreement. “Of course. We’ll need to agree what story to tell everyone. This is the only story that matters in the world right now—Hannibal will have to handle this carefully.”

Abigail allowed Barney to steer her into a closed off waiting room. “I think he’ll be staying with Will for a while. We could set up a secure line—“

“Why?” her aunt interjected, genuine confusion in her voice.

Abigail blinked. “Why what?”

“Why will he be staying?”

Abigail made a face. “Because Will’s hurt.” She quickly lowered her voice, not wanting anyone else in the room to know what kind of conversation they were having. “Daddy won’t be coming back to work today, so I suggest if there’s something you need, you either work around him or _wait_.”

There was a pause and then Aunt Bee’s voice returned, calm and emotionless. “Are you speaking for your father?”

Abigail realised she’d crossed a line that she shouldn’t have, too caught up in her emotions over Will to think about the person she was challenging. But she was a Lecter first, and if anyone should be allowed to represent the patriarch of the family, it was her. She drew her shoulders back and said confidently, “Yes, I am.”

Her aunt didn’t sound pleased. “Very well.”

“And I will be back later, so if Daddy has something to say to you, I’ll pass the word along,” she added, trying to keep anyone in the waiting room fro seeing her smirk. 

“How is my cousin’s little waif? Expecting to press charges against us or do you think he’ll bleed to death before that becomes a problem?”

“Will would never press charges. Don’t be stupid,” she snapped and could feel her aunt’s smile over the phone.

“Well, Hannibal is always so keen rescue the damaged, isn’t he?” her aunt murmured and Abigail’s hackles rose as the barely veiled reference to her past. But that was an argument for another time and place and her Aunt Bee added, “I’m afraid I have Cousin Caroline on the other end.”

“Send her our love,” Abigail said tightly.

“Of course.”

Abigail smiled as she hung up the phone, acting as though they had normal human dynamics like any other family. The door to the waiting room opened and she looked up.

“Uncle Jack.” The sobriquet slipped from her mouth, because as careful as she was around Jack Crawford, she still needed to grasp onto any familiarity being offered.

He pulled her into a quick hug. “How’s Hannibal?”

She nodded her head as though it meant something. “He’s upset, but relieved.”

Jack nodded as well, worrying the inside of his cheek. “He was supposed to address the voting rights of Washington DC residents.”

Honestly, were she and her father the only people who gave a fuck about Will’s well being? Folding her arms across her chest, she gave a snotty response. 

“Well, I’m sure Will is absolutely devastated he’s put a wrench in those plans.”

Jack held up his hands defensively. “I’m not—Abigail, I _care_ that Will is hurt. I’m not being insensitive. But Hannibal’s also the President and he’s supposed to devote himself entirely to the needs of the nation—“

“Will is my father’s best friend, the only person who truly understands him and his job—“

“I know your dad better than Will does,” Jack said with a pointed look.

This earned a sneer from her. “Really? _You_ know him better?”

He looked flustered and took a step back, posturing she immediately recognised as retreat and instinct forced her to take a step forward, wanting to reassert her sudden power in the room. 

“I’m not looking to get you upset—I know this is a lot for you right now. But you dad has other things on his plate that are important.”

“Uncle Jack, the people in Washington DC can’t even fucking _vote_ this year. Who gives a fuck if they don’t get a town hall today?” Abigail was slightly shocked at the words coming out her mouth, as they sounded more like something Marissa would have said than words she would have picked. But the look on Jack’s face gave her all the confidence she needed to continue. “Schedule it for next week. Fuck, don’t cancel it at all. I’ll go.”

“Abigail—“

“No, I represent my dad and Aunt Bee is too busy with bigger matters. I can take his notes and do it.” It was a thrilling prospect—she’d only been allowed to speak to smaller crowds and only upon becoming First Lady. Now she had the opportunity to show the nation why exactly her father had put her in the position rather than having one of the members of their adoptive family take the job. “Besides, can you imagine what MSNBC will say about First Lady Abigail taking her father’s place so that he can remain by his aide’s side?”

“Might make him look weak.” Jack looked tired.

“No. He’ll be a hero and this will rehab my image over that stupid party.”

“I don’t want—“

“I know my dad and he’ll say yes.” She lightened her tone, not wanting him to hold a grudge about the matter. “Call them up, tell them that they can expect the First Lady instead, and I’ll have Georgia get me a change of clothes. It’ll be perfect.”

Jack was shaking his head, obviously not wanting to comply with her orders, but seeing he had no real choice because while she was the First Lady, she was also Daddy’s Little Girl and no one told her ‘no’. “Only if your dad says yes.”

Her father’s Chief of Staff now distracted with his BlackBerry, trying to see if what she’d proposed was even feasible, she caught Agent Matthews nodding his head towards the door for her to follow him. Standing up, she gave polite nods to the other agents in the room and slipped out after Matthews; he brought a finger to his mouth, indicating the need for silence and she bit her lips between her teeth, allowing him to direct her towards the elevator at the end of the hall. 

The Clinic was almost empty, devoid of patients and staffed by only a handful of nurses and doctors, whom at this point had all learned to stay clear of the hallways so they weren’t escorted off by Secret Service; in the back of her mind, Abigail recognised that their presence was causing a huge disruption within the community and certainly there were people who (now that the shock of the event had worn off) were hoping that Will, her father, and their respective parties would leave and inconvenience someone else. She was torn between feeling guilty—because her father had raised her to appreciate efficiency—and not giving a fuck—this was her family’s clinic and they could do whatever the hell they wanted!—but she didn’t allow herself any time to dwell on it.

“Barney, tell me everything that happened,” she murmured as soon as the elevator doors shut and there was the small jolt of the lift rising. 

He shook his head, eyes focused on his reflection in the cool metal. “Your dad said he’d do those honours.”

“Did they at least shoot whoever did this to Will?” There was no response from Barney and she felt a tightness in her throat. “Oh god, they’re not on the loose, right?”

Barney squeezed her shoulder. “First Lady, the President will explain everything. Just…be patient.”

The elevator came to a stop and Barney murmured into his wrist to indicate to the agents on this floor they’d arrived; when the door opened, a cluster of agents stood outside, staring at the two of them apprehensively, though their guard dropped considerably as the visual confirmation they weren’t a threat. And immediately she realised why—her father had left Will’s room and was standing off to the side of the hallway, no doubt the one who’d had her summoned back to this floor; his stare was piercing and familiar, one that held her and made her feel like the only person in the world. To others it might seem too intense, but to her it was perfect. While she was naturally inclined to seek physical contact with her father, Abigail was hyperaware of the eyes on the two of them, watching to see how they handled the situation. So she found her headspace of being the daughter America had fallen in love with the year before and allowed her father to assume the role of Protective Father; in milliseconds, they were able to anticipate how they needed to portray themselves and she found herself wrapped up in his arms, closing her eyes as he kissed the side of her head. She took note of her surroundings, watching the various agents in the reflections off the glass walls that made up the private rooms, noting how she and her father were given privacy as they pulled apart and drifted over to stand outside of Will’s room; her father had opened the curtains inside the room about two feet so that only where she was standing was Will capable of being viewed. 

“What happened? Please tell me that…” She remembered that there were agents in the area and quickly censored her desires to hear that her father had killed whom, switching to Lithuanian. _“Whomever shot him is in_ ** _trouble_** _.”_

_“An agent shot Will.”_

Her eyes narrowed slightly; this story didn’t make sense—her father was too calm. _“What happened?”_

_“Will was explaining to me how the Chesapeake Ripper killed Mr Williams. He had a knife to my throat.”_

Her eyes immediately went to his neck; there was stubble along his skin but no cut. _“Was he going to kill you?”_

 _“I don’t know.”_ A slight tilt of his lips hinted that he found the matter exciting. _“I think he wanted to.”_

 _“Oh.”_ She exhaled, eyes flitting around the hallway; she watched Will through the glass for a moment, then looked back to her father. _“Who was it? Are you going to have them fired?”_

_“It was Agent Zeller.”_

_“Oh.”_ Something coiled tight in her stomach; she might not have Will’s empathy, but she certainly knew her former agent well enough to know this wasn’t premeditated or revenge. _“Brian made a mistake.”_

He nodded. _“Yes.”_

“Are you going to punish him?”

“Do you think he should be punished?”

Abigail quickly shook her head. _“No. He was doing his job. He probably would have killed anyone else. Will at least got a chance to fight for his life.”_ She knew there was a risk to showing any sort of emotional investment in Brian Zeller, but it was one she was willing to take. _“Though he’s probably going to have to be investigated for what happened…”_ Her chest tightened. _“Do you want Agent Zeller punished?”_

 _“Not particularly.”_ Her father’s attention returned to look through the glass at the man sleeping. _“Will did quite well in surgery, though admittedly I didn’t get to participate.”_

She took his hands between hers, rubbing them in a manner that mimicked what Will had once done to soothe her. _“Maybe someday,”_ she offered in an attempt to placate.

His eyes still lingered on Will. _“It is intimate to explore the insides of another.”_

Had this not been a serious matter, she would have rolled her eyes at someone explaining something so obvious, but this was a rare vulnerability—her father’s desire to have his thoughts reaffirmed—and she nodded, understanding completely what he meant. _“They told me that you got to use your blood to save him.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“That’s so lucky. Had I known, I would have packed a few bags of my own in the cooler.”_

“Mmm.” He smiled at her at her in a patronising manner—she knew there was no way he’d have allowed her to share something like that with Will. But she returned the smile anyway, wanting him to feel happy.  

_“Jack tells me you’re going in my place to speak at the town hall meeting.”_

She felt her heart drop into her stomach and she lowered her eyes; she’d forgotten about that. _“I didn’t mean to overstep your bounds. I, I just didn’t like how he was treating the situation. Will needs as much of you as he can get.”_

He brought a hand under her chin, forcing her to have eye contact with him. _“I would prefer that you consult me first, but how could I deny you this?”_ There was no anger in his eyes and his expression was soft. The fact that it would irritate Jack didn’t have to be said aloud. _“Of course you may go. Let me sync my notes to your iPad.”_

*****

Bedelia patted Alana's shoulder and rubbed soothingly at her back, recalling that this was how her mother had tried to sooth her after one of her tantrums when she'd been a child. Alana's own outburst had been similar to a tantrum, a loud and fearful outburst when she'd arrived at her assistant's flat at three in the morning to personally deliver the news. She'd gasped and sobbed and then cried out angrily before leaving Bedelia to change into clothes acceptable for the workplace. Bedelia had watched in amusement. 

It was past eight and they were alone in Bedelia's office and once more, Alana had been unable to contain her emotions over Hannibal’s assistant, tears spilling down her cheeks before burying her face in her hands; bedelia had come to her then, holding her close so that she could feel the emotions as though she'd caused them herself. 

Alana kept apologising and Bedelia continued to assure her that it was perfectly fine to be upset, that tears should be shed for incapacitated, traumatised Mr Graham. Alana began a new round of tears and Bedelia smiled pleasantly as she stroked her hair. She'd been washing with a coconut shampoo and it smelt very nice. If this were an intern she was comforting, she’d have pulled them into her lap and murmured soothing things into their ear, affection and praise that would probably lead to petting and perhaps tender kisses, pivoting her into that disgusting maternal role that was sometimes required of her.

But Alana was different and she curbed her desire to become inappropriate with her assistant; there were other matters she had to deal with now. While Hannibal was still the acting President of the United States, he was in the middle of playing doctor with his little pet and thusly neglecting duties, which fell to her to handle. Outside of her office door, she could hear phones ringing nonstop and the hum of conversation by her staffers.  

“You’ll be fine.” She kissed Alana’s cheek, just close enough to the corner of her lips to be misinterpreted and then released her, feigning interest in her own phone, which sat on the desk, buzzing obnoxiously. “Hello, Patrick. How are you? Did Cousin Caroline call you?”

She sat down in her chair and there was a slight tug on her arm; she glanced over as she listened to her older cousin began to rattle off how he’d been awoken to speculative stories of Hannibal being shot, but her mind was focused on the fact she was still holding Alana’s hand. Her assistant’s eyes and nose were still red, but she gave Bedelia a smile that showed perhaps she was ready to move past these emotions for Mr Graham and Bedelia smiled in return; if Alana wasn’t crying, at least her attention was solely on her now. 

*****

Abigail stood at the edge of the doorway, looking at the anxious and curious crowd. It was almost ten o’clock and while previous presidents had been more than happy to start their events late, the Lecter administration had set the unprecedented standard of starting at the exact time they’d stated they would and First Lady Lecterwould be no exception. The Madchens were murmuring words of advice and whispering questions to her and she answered them quietly as she listened to Mayor Vincent Gray introducing her to the citizens who’d attended the town hall meeting. 

“You’ll do great, Abbs,” Georgia whispered in her ear.

Abigail masked her annoyance quickly, but gave a small nod. She had her hair tucked into a professional looking french twist, and was wearing the navy wool pant suit her staff had decided made her look more ‘mature’; now was the time for her to prove to everyone she really was qualified to represent her father. She was aware that she’d been allowing her persona to slip more often in the past few months and with the added stress of Will’s anger towards her and the fact he was in the hospital with a potentially grave injury, she knew she was one outburst away from showing who she really could be.

“Thank you, Georgia,” she replied, smiling and touching her normal hand—it might be a few seconds too late, but that would be easily overlooked.

Mayor Gray announced her name and the crowd applauded loudly as the sound system began to play something modern with a steady beat, the woman’s voice soaring; she walked out, making sure that she held her head high and gave a quick wave to the crowd as she was offered an arm up the steps of the stage. Barney stood a few feet away, eyes hidden by sunglasses and there were dazzling flashes of light as her photo was taken from all angles; phones and tablets were held aloft to record her and as she stood behind the podium, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Everyone was staring at her. Oh god, was this what her father saw every time he stood at a podium? Everyone dying to hear what _you_ had to say? All the attention on her and nothing else? There was a jolt in her stomach, a warmth that reminded her of the hazy bliss of watching Mason Verger peeling off his face for her amusement. Her mouth went dry.

Absolute control.

While her mask remained in place, a habit she almost couldn’t shake, it dawned on her that she owned these people. She would speak to this audience, her father’s words disguised as her own, and she could make everyone here peel off their faces for her, all of them smiling for _her_ pleasure. All she had to do was watch. They wanted her soft face, her father’s stoicism, and the Administration’s dedication to their needs. 

She smiled a bit sweeter as the music faded out, but the applause continued; she offered another wave and could see in their eyes that they wanted to see her broken, that they needed to protect her from what had happened to Will, and by proxy, her father. So the smile faded slightly and the applause died down, everyone breathless and hanging on her every movement. Feigning brushing a tear away, she swallowed hard and began her father’s speech.

*****

It was just past three in the afternoon when Nurse Tony returned with a tray of new bandaging material. Hannibal had been reading on his iPad while Will slipped in and out of sleep; Tattle-Politics automatically reloaded its main page every ninety seconds and an hour ago, he’d discovered that the site was headlining with an article about Abigail at the Clinic. There was a photo of her standing by the lobby she’d had her throat slit in, her face passive and Barney Matthews at her shoulder, looking protective. 

**First Daughter Revisits Childhood Trauma**

This was not a pleasing development to him; firstly, Abigail was still a child and should not have any stories being written about her, and secondly, the article made it sound as though she’d come to the clinic to revisit a tragedy, which was ridiculous, because she was obviously here for Will.

But with Tony in the room, Hannibal elected to close up the device to watch the care being issued to his significant other; he had no doubts that the man would do an excellent job—he simply wanted to watch Will being touched by someone else. Was it jealousy? He decided to catalogue the feeling away and analyse it later. 

“Hello, Mr Graham. How are you feeling this afternoon?” the nurse greeted amicably, standing between the hospital bed and Hannibal’s chair.

“I don’t want to be here,” Will muttered.

Tony chuckled as he set the tray down. “Well, the doctor tells me that you should be out of here in a few days. They want to keep an eye on you.” “I’m going to change your bandages, okay?” Will let out a soft huffing noise as he shifted beneath the thin polyester blanket, muffling the noise of Hannibal moving his chair so he could maintain visuals on the injured man. The nurse didn’t seem off-put by Will’s abrasive attitude. “I’m Tony, by the way.” He helped Will sit up and began removing the upper half of the threadbare hospital gown he wore. “I’ve actually worked here when the President was still a surgeon. I’m the head nurse for this floor. Tell me if I’m hurting you.” Tony finally paused, studying his patient. “Mr Graham?”

“I”m just tired,” Will lied and Hannibal smiled.

Tony nodded and returned to his task. “I can understand. You’ve had a long day.” He peeled away the bandaging and assessed the wound. “You look fine. This is going to heal perfectly.”

“Great,” Will mumbled.

Tony began to fill the space with small talk as her worked and Hannibal watched as Will’s eyes slid over to his with an unspoken understanding that small talk had never been welcome in their relationship. Hannibal offered Will a sympathetic nod, because while he never felt pity, he could at least understand having to listen to the incessant chatter of others. Nurse Tony eventually left, reminding Will that ‘all you have to do is press the call button and I’ll come running’ and Hannibal counted to seven in his mind before Will finally spoke again. 

“He’s attracted to you,” Will mumbled, sounding tired and angry.

Hannibal looked at him curiously. “Does that bother you, Will?”

Will said nothing.

They sat in silence for another twenty minutes—Will avoiding his eyes while Hannibal watched unblinking—until Abigail arrived, a newspaper tucked under her elbow. She looked distressed and pale, and both men began to ask her what was wrong, but she just shot them a smile to mask whatever had upset her and stood beside his chair, eyes focused on Will. 

“Hi.” Her face softened and she placed a hand on one of Will’s blanketed feet. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m thirsty.” When Hannibal reached for the plastic cup of room temperature water, Will’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to hold it for me.”

He withdrew his hand. “My apologies.”

“I got to go speak at the DC voter rights town hall.” Abigail was rubbing Will’s foot and Hannibal could see that he found it soothing.

“How did you do?” Will murmured, eyes watching her hand.

She smiled. “I think I did great. I wish you could have seen it.”

“We’ll have someone bring a recording for him to watch,” Hannibal offered. 

“I was expecting something more formal to walk out to. Daddy gets _‘Hail to the Chief’_ —I got something in the Top 40,” their daughter lamented.

Will closed his eyes and nodded. “We told them you needed contemporary music anytime you were introduced. Same with your dad when he did informal meet-and-greets. Only in the cities, though. The Mid-West needs you to walk out to oldies.” He shrugged his shoulders and winced. “Probably Frank Ocean or Jay-Z. Maybe Coldplay.” 

“It was a woman. She was singing about being ‘bright like a diamond’,” she offered helpfully.

Will sighed, rubbing at his face with his right hand. “I don’t know. I’m not in charge of that.”

“I’ll have Georgia find out,” she said and then removed the newspaper from under her elbow, handing it over to him. “Daddy…”

Hannibal opened the newspaper to see that in fact the Gotham Tribune had been the one to run the photo of himself and Will in the hospital room. The amount of detail lost to ink printing was disappointing, but there was something romantic about it being in print form rather than on a screen that he couldn’t help but appreciate. 

**PRESIDENTIAL AIDE SHOT:**

**HERO OR LATEST VICTIM OF THE WHITE HOUSE JINX?**

_Freddy Lounds, Editor at Large, Gotham Tribune. Freddie Lounds, Photographer, Tattle-Politics._

“What is it?” Will asked, his voice groggy.

“It’s nothing. We’re taking care of it,” Abigail said quickly, no doubt wanting to assure him that he was safest under their care.

“What is it?” Will repeated. 

Abigail was worrying her hands and biting at the inside of her cheek, both incredibly unattractive habits. “Just…”

“It seems Miss Lounds was able to get a photograph of the two of us,” Hannibal replied, leaving his chair to bring the newspaper to him. 

“The Gotham Tribune?” Will raised an eyebrow.

Hannibal returned to his chair with a smile. “It seems her father was willing to take the risk of publishing something that would upset me.” 

“Don’t worry. We’ll make sure this is taken care of,” Abigail said again. 

“I don’t want _your_ kind of help,” Will snapped.

When Abigail opened her mouth to protest, Hannibal quickly redirected her attention back to him. “He is tired, my princess. Let us allow him to rest. There’s nothing to be done right now.”

Abigail took a deep breath, trying to force down any outward expressions of dispair and found his hand, needing comfort as they watched Will open the newspaper and began reading. 

*****

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub/noncon at the end of the chapter. See end notes for details.

As the end of the day, Brian was exhausted mentally and physically. His badge had been stripped from him, his gun and communicator as well, leaving him with a temporary security badge that restricted him to the Secret Service offices in the White House and at the offsite headquarters. He’d left just as Denis Bonham was having a new asshole torn by the higher ups for allowing Freddie Lounds to slip into Will Graham’s hospital room. Were he a gambling man, he could guarantee that Bonham was going to be fired, which had an odd, bitter irony to it considering Brian was the reason Freddie even had a story to pursue in the first place and he was going to be subject to weeks of investigation before being dismissed without any honours.

He had been put through the wringer but what he’d experienced so far had all bee technical, nothing that was out to question who he was as a person. That was being saved for tomorrow when the head of Internal Affairs for the Secret Service, Agent Kade Purnell, arrived from California for the real grilling. He felt like he was on death row, waiting for a sunrise execution. He hadn’t even been able to stomach a last meal.

As he entered his apartment, he could sense something was off; his hand immediately went to his side, looking for his gun, but found nothing, so he held fanned his keys between his knuckles, ready for a fight. He flipped on his entryway’s light, noting that the lamp in his sitting room was on already—he was certain he’d not left it on. Sixth sense or something he wasn’t registering on a conscious level told him that there were at least two people in his flat. Perhaps three. He lowered his side bag to the floor and didn’t shut the front door, walking slowly and absolutely silent to the sitting room. It would be smarter to just leave and call for backup, but he wasn’t in a completely rational state of mind—he’d been awake for almost a day and half, and the past eighteen hours had been filled with more anxiety and adrenaline than he’d ever experienced in his life prior. 

Apprehension turned to shock as he peered around the wall into the sitting room as saw the Vice President sitting in his recliner, flanked by her two agents, silent and watching her with cool expressions. 

“Agent Zeller,” she said calmly and he stepped into the sitting room, releasing the keys in his fist.

“Madame Vice President,” he replied politely, his mind having a hard time processing the situation. 

She made no indication he had permission to sit down (in his own apartment) and her delicate fingers tapped against the faux leather of the armrests. “I am already aware you have spoken to Ms Lounds. What did you say to her and how much did you accept?”

Brian blanched; Lounds had followed him from the White House and when he’d pulled over for gas at the nearby Texico, she’d ambushed him at the pump with questions and promises that he’d be a confidential informant. He’d only been able to get three gallons of unleaded in the tank before he shoved the nozzle back in the pump and driven off quickly, not even shutting the door to the car tank. 

“I don’t want to lose my job,” he said quietly, unable to keep his voice from shaking. 

She said nothing, simply blinked and continued staring. 

The silence was worse than expected and he quickly explained, “I didn’t tell her anything. But she tried to give me fifteen thousand as incentive for information. I don’t think she realised I was involved—she just recognised me as being part of the President’s detail.”

The Vice President’s left eyebrow lifted slightly. “She’s getting cheap. She should have offered you at least sixty. God knows her terrible site gets that through advertising alone.”

Her voice was flat, unimpressed and he felt his palms begin to sweat. 

“I didn’t—I didn’t shoot Will because he’s…” He didn’t want to look like a homophobic asshole, because he really wasn’t. “I thought he was trying to kill the President. I thought he’d snapped.”

She looked bored now. “I don’t really care why you shot him. I just need to know that my family’s secrets are secure.”

“I’d never tell anyone,” Brian swore, almost sick at the thought of being a traitor. 

“I understand that while you are a man of honour, money can makes fools of us all.” She uncrossed her legs and tucked them down at an angle as she reached around the side of the armchair to pull out a black nylon duffle bag; as she slid it across the floor to him with one of her high-heeled feet. As he knelt down to take it, he saw it was unzipped and filled to the brim with wrapped hundred dollar bills. “You’re a smart man, Agent Zeller. I’m sure you can think of a way to make it look as though you’ve been saving for a rainy day.”

He paused in reaching out for the bag, warning bells ringing in his head. “Madame Vice President, I can’t accept this.”

The corner of the Vice President’s mouth curled in a sneer that he almost didn’t catch before it disappeared. “This isn’t a test, Agent Zeller. You will accept it.” She looked down at him, eyes revealing no emotion behind them. “It’s one hundred and fifty thousand, all unmarked.” 

Then she stood, looking down at him and her agents came to stand at her side, reminding Brian of Rottweilers waiting for their master’s command; he was familiar with them, but anyone under the Vice President’s influence had the strange tendency to stop associating with anyone outside her office. He had no doubt they would turn on him in a heartbeat and as a result, he held very still as she walked past him. 

“We shall try to contain the matter of your identity for as long as possible. Agent Purnell is in agreement with me that the less the media knows, the better, lest you become pursued. I would suggest you pack a bag and make arrangements to stay at your sister’s home in New York; your name will be released publicly by the end of the week, which will result in a media hunt for you.” He said nothing and she seemed pleased by the silence, as she added a polite, “Goodnight, Agent Zeller.”

He turned his head enough so that he could see her out of the corner of his eye.

“Goodnight, Madame Vice President.”

He shifted back on his haunches as he listened to Du Maurier and her agents walk out of his apartment, shutting the door softly behind them and he let out a long sigh. 

Secret Service had a nickname for the Vice President’s office—the Beehive. Du Maurier was the Queen and her workers were called ‘drones’; the terms had arisen after the cousins had announced their bids for the White House, young Abigail’s endearment of ‘Aunt Bee’ making an impression on the agents that had been assigned to protect the politicians. However the terms weren’t meant to be playful, filled with far too much wariness and tonight had been good evidence as to why. While it wasn’t uncommon for staffers and agents to develop deep feelings of loyalty to their boss, the Beehive seemed to have a literal hive-mindset that infected anyone working under the Vice President for too long. Du Maurier’s staff were prissy and unlikeable for the most part, all guarding against anyone entering the kingdom, alienated from the rest of the White House personnel. Even though they were located incredibly close to the Oval Office, there had been hushed talk of how the Vice President had truly created her own private empire to work independently of the President’s own administration. Brian had the distinct impression that Hannibal Lecter was very aware of what his cousin was doing and been more than happy to allow her to do so, but that didn’t make him feel anymore comfortable. Brian could bet his security clearance that Du Maurier’s agents didn’t report her comings and goings to headquarters, letting her travel anywhere invisibly, which was a huge security concern. Lecter already had enough agents bending protocol—they didn’t need the Vice President operating completely outside of the system. 

Rising to his feet and trying to not stare at the money in the bag, he went over to the armchair and sat down; the material was still warm from where she’d been sitting and the air had a lingering hint of her perfume. Brian still had his White House issued phone and even though he knew he was being monitored, he needed to reach out to someone; opening up his list of contacts, he selected a favourite and typed out a quick text message.

{Can u talk}

It was a dangerous gamble—he wasn’t allowed to speak with any fellow agents and he certainly couldn’t talk to any civilian, which really left only one person that he might have to help him sort out the current situation. His phone buzzed in his palm with the reply.

{just1min}

He sighed, stomach still tight like he might throw up at any moment; he was second guessing his decision to talk to anyone now. His home phone rang and he jumped slightly, anxious, but he answered and was greeted by Abigail Lecter’s familiar voice. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi.” He almost smiled, but he still felt too worried at what sort of hatred she might harbour over the fact he’d shot the man trying to become her stepdad; certainly she’d been told by now what he’d done. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better. How are you?” She didn’t sound angry, just tired.

He glanced down at the duffle bag by his feet. “Your aunt just gave me money. A lot of it.”

Her voice became quiet and grave. “It’s a reminder that you’re loyal to us.”

He swallowed hard; this would have been easier if done in the flesh—he had no way of watching her face and seeing what she really thought about him. “You know I didn’t shoot Will because I was pissed at him.”

“I know. You were doing what you thought you had to.”

This was all too easy and he wondered if some horrible game was being played with him. “Are you mad?”

“No.” She paused for a moment and all he could hear was the sound of her breathing. “This was almost the third time I’ve lost a parent.”

“I feel horrible,” he murmured. 

“Good.” Her voice broke slightly. “Will isn’t talking to me. And he almost died and I wouldn’t have ever been able to tell him that he’s important to me. And to Daddy.”

He wiped at his watering eyes. “I’m so sorry, Abigail. I really am.”

“I know.” She let out a sigh. “And thank you for not hesitating to shoot.”

They were quiet and Brian massaged his temples, blurting out the first thing that came to his mind. “You know, when your dad first became president, he told us that in the event there was an emergency, we were to save you along with him or not save him at all. He said he wouldn’t accept living without you. That he’d rather your aunt become president through his death than have to know that you’d been left to fend for yourself.”

In fact, that had been the moment Brian had known he would be happy to take a bullet for the President if asked. A parent who wouldn’t want to know life without his child…he hadn’t even been assigned to the President at that point, still Abigail’s agent, but the sincerity had resonated so deeply in him that he knew this was the man who needed to lead the nation.

She was quiet and he thought about how stupid it was to talk about death to someone like Abigail; if she wasn’t uncomfortable talking to him already, she would be now.

“What were you fighting about?” he asked.

“It was nothing.”

“Nothing? Abigail, he almost died and you said he’s not talking to you still. It must have been something.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled.

“When I was a kid, my parents…fought. And separated for a while. It was over stupid shit. And I’m sorry you go dragged into it.” He ran a hand down the side of his face, noting the growth of stubble that had appeared since the day before; somewhere in the back of his mind he dredged up the words he would have wanted to hear if he was a kid again and looking at the loss of his family dynamic. Brian leant back in his chair and spoke earnestly. “I see how Will looks at your dad. He loves him. Even last night, he was looking at him that way.” He sighed, not sure what the fuck he as actually accomplishing but the way he was talking. “What I’m trying to say is that no matter what you all had a fight over, if the three of you love one another and want to be a family, you’ll make it happen.”

“Did your parents get back together?” Abigail asked after a moment. 

“Yes. And they’re still married to each other.”

This seemed to be the right thing to say to her, as she replied softly, “We’re not going to let you get fired for this.”

He gave a dry laugh. “I shot the president’s boyfriend. This isn’t something that can get swept under the rug. The head of Secret Service’s Internal Affairs department is coming in tomorrow to tear me a new one.” His stomach twisted into another knot. “If there’s anything left of me after Purnell is through, I’ll be fired.”

“I can act as a character witness. I mean, you were my agent for over a year. That has to count for something.” She sounded like a seventeen year old suddenly, optimistic and naïve about how these matters actually worked.

“I don’t think anyone believes me when I say this wasn’t personal.”

“Barney told me that you fought with him in the parking lot after he left the house.”

“I did. I just wanted answers. He had a knife in his hand and you were crying…”

“I’m not used to people yelling at me. That’s all,” she said quickly and he thought she sounded defensive.

“I don’t care what you did or what he was mad about, no one should ever yell at a kid,” Bryan said sternly. 

“Maybe I deserved it.”

He shook his head despite the fact she couldn’t see him. “I don’t believe that.” 

“I believe you didn’t do it because you were mad at him.”

“Well, you’re the only one.”

“Daddy doesn’t.”

He expected the President wanted his head on a stick. “I _shot_ Will.”

“He doesn’t want you punished. I promise.”

They were quiet again and he contemplated the fact that even if she wasn’t mad at him, she’d never see him the same way—he’d always be the person who shot Will Graham and that would hang over him for the rest of his life. And one day there was a likelihood that the President and Graham would make their relationship public and he’d bee thrust back in the spotlight as the man who shot the President’s partner. He knew it was selfishto even think about his own reputation while Graham was lying in a hospital bed, but he couldn’t help it. He felt like shit and everything he’d ever done to be a good person was spiraling down a drain because of one mistake. The worst part was that every part of his mind desperately wanted to rationalise that what he’d done was right, because he’d seen that knife’s blade glint as it rest against the President’s throat—he shivered. It didn’t matter now. The President and Graham had obviously been indulging in their little hobby of playing detective and he’d fucked it all up spectacularly by not thinking things through. Will Graham didn’t have a motive for wanting Hannibal hurt, much less dead. 

“Where are you calling from?” he finally asked.

Abigail gave an easy laugh. “I’m borrowing an usher’s personal cell. Gave her a hundred bucks.”

“Ah.” He smiled at her clever thinking; there was a high likelihood they weren’t being listened in on, though if his phone records were looked at later, the usher might bequestioned as to why their phone had placed a rather long call to Brian’s apartment. Perhaps Abigail would have her aunt take care of that, too. “I’m pretty freaked out. This…isn’t going to go away easily. Purnell…” He winced as he thought about the woman. “I don’t want to talk shit about a fellow agent, but there’s a reason she’s the head of Internal Affairs. She’s not someone who believes in the blue veil.”

“Blue veil?”

He quickly explained. “The code of silence among agents to protect an agent that’s being investigated, or that’s done something wrong.”

“Would the other agents lie to protect you?” she sounded alarmed and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat; of course something like that would bother her—these were the people assigned to protect her family. 

“This isn’t like getting drunk on the job or hiring a prostitute. This is…I’m going down for this. I don’t think anyone’s going to straight out talk shit about my performance as an agent, but no one’s going try to sugar coat it,” he admitted. 

“Because my dad was there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, but also because it’s Will. You can’t spin anything in an agent’s favour if they hurt a president’s Triple-F.”

“Triple-F?” She sounded confused.

He winced, suddenly uncomfortable with what he’d have to explain to her. “Uh, it stands for ‘Family, Friend, or—’ ” he cleared his throat, “ ‘Fuck’.”

“Ah. So those in the inner circle.”

“Right. And obviously I’ve hurt someone that your dad cares about a lot.”

“Her name’s Purnell?” Abigail asked rather suddenly.

“Yes.” He snapped to attention, realising what she was up to. “Abigail, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Brian, shut up. I’m going to bail you out of this.”

“Please…just let this run its course.”

If there was one thing he’d learnt about her in the time they’d spent together, Abigail was stubborn and never took ‘no’ for an answer. 

“I’m going to have my office contact her to open up an appointment for her to come talk to me. I’ll tell her what an awesome agent you are.”

“Why can’t you just leave this for me to deal with?” It was a half-hearted complaint as he knew full well that Abigail’s word would go far in a situation like this, but the thought of inconveniencing her or a nasty encounter with the head of Internal Affairs was off-putting.

“Why can’t you just be thankful?” she retorted, though she sounded amused. 

“I am. I owe you big time.”He exhaled softly, needing her to know how grateful he was that she would involve herself willingly.

She was quiet for a moment and when she spoke again, he could hear a smile in her voice. “Yes. You do.”

The line went dead and Brian tried to ignore the way his skin crawled at her final words.

*****

Hannibal spent the night in Will’s room on a second hospital bed that had been wheeled in, the curtain pulled between their beds to create an illusion of privacy. Had it been up to him, Will would be in a bed with him, relaxing in soft sheets and under his absolute care. But he did not have that luxury and instead drank in the experience of their private universe in the Clinic; when Will awoke in the middle of the night from one of the nightmares he had all but lost, Hannibal slipped over to his side to still him. Hannibal had chastely kissed Will’s face and hands, murmuring soft comfort words his mother had once upon a time whispered to him, until the other man fell back to sleep. 

In the morning he showered in the room’s private bathroom and changed into new clothing that Bedelia had had sent over with Abigail for her morning briefing on Will’s status. She attempted yet again to bring their Will breakfast from a fast food restaurant, but Hannibal had intercepted with the complaint that the food would be too heavy on Will’s stomach. It was the truth, but not the real reason for denying the gesture. 

There had been an influx of flowers and gifts from all over the world: the United Arab Emirates had sent an extravagant arrangement that stood almost four feet tall in the cream coloured vase, while Chancellor Merkle’s office had sent an impressive dozen sunflowers. Zimbabwe had sent a very fragrant medicinal tea, which Hannibal prepared for their lunch—Will only ate a prepackaged cup of applesauce before blanching at the sight of a perfectly innocent Iranian-style beef stroganov the White House kitchens sent over for him to eat. Various news organisations and members of the DNC had sent fairly run of the mill bouquets as well, causing Hannibal to cringe at the sight of vulgar green Gerbera daisies and cheap babies breath. 

Hannibal had sent all of the flowers to the White House where the flower department had been instructed to photograph then dismantle each arrangement, using them to create new bouquets that would be distributed to local hospice patients across the greater Washington DC. The gifts were catalogued and then kept in the altar room in the Residence. 

While Will slept throughout the day or had medical checks from the doctors and nurses, Hannibal kept himself occupied by the mythology that had been created by the media around what had happened in the Meyerhoff; the White House was still in damage control mode, wanting to contain as much information as possible because it was considered an embarrassment. Were it Hannibal’s decision, he would release the information immediately simply for the sake of stopping the ridiculous theories that were flying about— _“Was a Syrian assassination attempt responsible for the shooting of Will Graham?” “Presidential stalker problems?” “Will Graham not shot! White House distracts from G8 with fake shooting!”_ —but it was amusing to watch his staff struggle to control the situation. With Bella Crawford’s cancer eating away at her from the inside out, this stress could only weaken her further to the point where she’d finally have to admit to her husband she was sick. Hannibal couldn’t wait.

But he was unhappy with the slurs against Will’s character, the constant attacks and speculations as to what was ‘wrong’ with him. The terms ‘crazy’ and ‘unstable’ showed up much too often for his taste and he made a note of every journalist who’d written such unsavoury things, planning to never grant them the privilege of working with the White House. The instinct to protect Will was almost obscene, a weight pressing on his chest, but it was new and wonderful, deeper maroon shades of what he felt for Abigail. So beautiful, just like the man himself. 

*****

Secret Service was not a nine-to-five job; the ones who handled the money problems weren’t some pussies that sat around in the office getting pancakes asses and the ones that held the guns were tornados trapped in human forms. There was only one agent that traveled in a limbo state, carrying no gun and touching no counterfeit bills, instead acting as the judge, jury, and executioner for anything that went wrong among those employed to keep the President safe. 

Kade surveyed the White House office space which had went from an overwhelming flurry of voices to a quiet gentle hum at her presence. She wasn’t stupid—she knew that the people in here hated her, thought of her as someone who nitpicked over petty bullshit that no one had any business reprimanding others over. But Internal Affairs was the reason the Secret Service maintained such a spotless reputation—she’d be damned if anyone unworthy of the badge as allowed to work here.

And she was ready to clean away the blemish that was Brian Zeller.

Secret Service Agent Kade Purnell of the United States Treasury Department was the one person whom everyone in the Uniformed Division feared, loathed, and dreaded because she had no patience for anything less than perfection. When she entered a room, she walked in as though she owned it, because in fact she did own it. Any agent assigned a badge and gun answered to her directly for their conduct.

Her shrewd eyes tracked Agent Price who was just leaving for the morning shift hurrying towards her, a bagel wrapped in a napkin in his right hand, choking down the bite he’d taken as she’d entered the room. Her own hand tightened around her briefcase handle. 

“When can I speak to President Lecter?” she asked, not allowing him to speak first.

“He’s insisting that he stay at the Clinic until Will’s released.” Price had a smear of cream cheese on the side of his mouth. 

Her free hand clenched tightly. “That’s not strategically safe—“

“I’m very aware of that. But he’s you can’t tell the President ‘no’, now can you?”

Presidents were so fucking spoilt it made her sick, but ninety-nine point nine percent of the time agents had to smile and say, ‘yes, sir!’ no matter what was being asked. And from what she’d been reading in the file on the flight to the White House this morning, Lecter seemed to be one of privileged assholes that managed to sweet talk his way into getting everything he wanted; removal of the majority of agents from the Residence for privacy, hiring an assistant who couldn’t pass a security clearance, _fucking_ said assistant, sneaking off without backup because he was _bored_ —he was a security hazard of the highest caliber and her worst nightmare because he was so fucking _charming_. 

“Have security doubled at the hospital,” she instructed sourly, because it was the best she could do—no one would listen to her anyway.

Price’s expression became equally tart. “Agent Kade, I appreciate your input, but I’m in charge of the President’s safety. You’re here to crucify Brian Zeller.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she sneered. Great, just what she fucking needed—agents uniting against her as though she was the enemy. “Make arrangements for me to speak to the President as soon as possible.” She glanced around the room once more. “And where is Agent Zeller?” 

Price’s attention turned to a small side office with a shut door and muttered, “Right this way.”

*****

“What are you doing?” Will asked sleepily that evening and Hannibal looked up from the leather folio in his hands; he’d been monitoring Will’s exhaustion, which seemed normal for the time being. 

“The pardon attorney Ronald Rogers has sent over thirty-two new requests for potential clemency.” Hannibal held up the personal letter the inmate had submitted for his consideration. “This letter says we shouldn’t even have a penitentiary system.”

Will gave a grimace. “How quaint.”

“Do you think they would still feel the same way after having met me?” Hannibal teased. 

“They’d probably believe in the death penalty.”

Hannibal smiled. “You flatter me, Will.”

The younger man looked away from him. “How often has Jack been asking for you to go back to the White House?”

“Don’t worry about it, my sweet Will.” He wanted to press a kiss to Will’s temple, but that would require him to leave his chair and he knew that making that much movement to approach him would be off-putting, so he simply asked, “Shall I read to you?”

“Have any Tom Clancy?” 

Will had no doubt meant it as a challenge, but Hannibal had brought many small comforts from home—their home— and the battered paperback Will had left for his overnight stays at the White House was one of them; removing it from the overnight bag that had been packed for him by Abigail, he showed it to Will. 

“From your nightstand.” His finger slipped between the pages Will had bookmarked with an envelope his phone bill had been delivered in. “Shall I begin where you left off?”

Will seemed to be conflicted but in the end closed his eyes and nodded his head. “Please.”

Hannibal wished they could be in bed together so that he might rest his hand atop Will’s as he read, but pushed the thought away so that he could instead focus on the task of reading aloud the adventures of Jack Ryan.

*****

The second night Hannibal stayed over at the Clinic, Bedelia paced her office; she’d sent her Chief of Staff and Alana home hours ago, needing the space free of people so she could think and plot. This mess with Will Graham could sour soon and with the instincts that her made her one of the most powerful politicians in Washington, she could see that this ‘situation’ was a fruit ready to become overly ripe, sugar rotting until the spoilt smell filled the air. 

She glanced down at the Gotham Tribune special edition that had the entire front page plastered with the image of Hannibal to the side of Graham, dying. Why couldn’t he have just died? Then her beautiful cousin wouldn’t have to deal with this burden! They could have given him pricey funeral and then been done with him, but now he was lingering on in the hospital, allowing these romantically heroic conceptions about who he was get created. And the way Hannibal hovered around the Clinic like Graham’s own personal angel of death was going to lead to questions as to the true nature of their relationship at some point—something that Bedelia wanted to avoid at all cost. There was already enough speculation as to why the President was still a bachelor and she’d rather say publicly that it was because he was the Chesapeake Ripper than something so tasteless and crass as ‘gay’. And he certainly wasn’t _that_. 

Congress would work with a serial killer, not a man sleeping with sexual tastes that strayed from ‘heterosexual’. She snorted in disgust. What was this nation coming to?

*****

It was the third day and Will wondered if this was what hell felt like—a mind woozy from painkillers, a predator at his side, the overwhelming scent of disinfectant, and a ceiling of harsh florescent lights. He’d already begged the nurse that had been designated his personal attendant to remove his catheter and help him to the room’s bathroom to shower, just so he could get away from the overbearing presence of Hannibal and Abigail. Granted, being bathed by a complete stranger was incredibly humiliating, but it was better than the Lecters watching him as though he was a rabbit that might escape. 

Abigail was gone (thank God), but Hannibal was seemingly determined to remain at his side. He was slowly being weaned off the stronger pain meds and as a result, he was more alert and definitely more irritable. 

“Don’t you have work to do?” he asked a few hours after lunch, his voice taking a hard edge that was closer to anger than necessary. 

“I am doing my job, Will. The country wants to see me broken over you. And so I am.”

“No one’s seen you in here except for Freddie and that was two days ago. You can leave,” Will snapped.

Hannibal tilted his head slightly. “My place is at your side, dear boy.”

Will fumed silently for a while—it could have been sixty seconds, it might have been twenty minutes—until Hannibal asked, 

“What was death like?”

“It was easy. Like slipping into a warm bath,” Will said sarcastically. 

Hannibal’s pupils expanded and he licked his bottom lip. “Three pints of me are inside of you. How does it feel?”

“Fuck _off_.”

There was a sharp jolt in his stomach. It made him feel powerful. Having Hannibal inside him. He couldn’t fight back the grim smile at the innuendo, which Hannibal appeared to take as consent that there was a conversation to be had.  

“I imagine it’s not unpalatable at all,” Hannibal murmured standing up from his chair and pulling the curtain around most of the bed, privacy from any agent looking in. Will felt a cold tremor of fear run through him. “I’ve dreamt every night of sharing the same with you. Do you think I might see the world through your eyes?” Hannibal switched the machine off monitoring his heart beat and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing Will. “No one is expected to interrupt us for another fifteen minutes, my dear Will.”

Hannibal’s right hand snaked up under the polyester blanket, careful not to disrupt the warm cocoon around his body.  

“Hannibal, stop,” Will stammered as the thin cotton hospital gown he wore was slipped up his thighs until it was bunched up over his stomach.

“No, my love.” Hannibal kissed him along the temple, breathing him in deeply.

“Stop, please.” Will desperately grabbed onto the other man’s wrist, pulling at him.

“Please,” Hannibal echoed, murmuring the word in his ear.

Hannibal’s hand knew him better than he did and Will squeezed his eyes shut at the overloading sensations that were firing through his brain, letting out a shaky breath against Hannibal’s cheek as his body slowly responded. He attempted to fight Hannibal away but he was too tired from his day’s earlier activities and eventually gave up, allowing the other man to stroke him to full hardness, which was overwhelming in a way he’d never experienced before.

Hannibal finally sat up, looking down at him, watching him curiously as he jerked him off and Will carefully kept his eyes away from his.. Will’s hand groped about frantically until he found Hannibal’s thigh, running his fingers up the smooth tweed to find that Hannibal was hard. His mouth salivated at the feeling, pure instinct to please the man he knew best. Hannibal spread his leg open and with his free hand pressed Will’s palm harder against his groin.

Will wanted more than anything to have Hannibal’s mouth around him, those thin lips red and tongue swathing him in saliva— _‘He eats people with that mouth.’_ —to be back on the luxurious presidential bed where he had the space to be properly fucked and indulged. 

“Mouth,” he whimpered finally, wanting, _needing_ Hannibal.

There wasn’t a moment of hesitation and the thin polyester blanket was being drawn back, exposing his body to the cool air of the hospital room. He felt fever hot and Hannibal’s skin felt fever hot and oh god, he was positioning himself between Will’s legs on this narrow bed! 

He panted, watching Hannibal’s face intently, memorising the way Hannibal licked his lips— _‘He’s hungry for me.’_ —and let out a low moan as he was suddenly engulfed in wet heat. His hands threaded into Hannibal’s hair, forcing his head down so that he had Will completely swallowed. He groaned at the feeling of the sensitive slit pressing at the back of Hannibal’s throat, keeping himself in that position as he focused on the sensation. But even the well disciplined Hannibal had his limits and finally made a gagging noise, which forced Will to let him go, breathing heavily as he allowed the other man to set the pace. Every touch felt ruthless and cruel, demanding Will experience pleasure at his touch. It wasn’t a choice and Will wondered if Hannibal had always wanted to strip away his dignity from him so bluntly. 

He rolled his hips at a pace he knew Hannibal would find acceptable and distantly noticed that the other man was stroking himself through his trousers every so often. A hidden part of him thrilled that he was able to get a reaction from Hannibal so desperate, but it quickly turned sour at knowing Hannibal was aroused by his power over Will, not because of Will’s pleasure. His tongue was greedy and the way he swallowed at Will was almost like he was trying to get Will to grab fistfuls of his hair again and hold him down, which he refused to do, though he did find himself petting affectionately because his hands _ached_ to give that kind of endurement. 

Hannibal eventually pulled off Will’s cock, crawling up the hospital bed, their bodies still moving in attuned unison so that Will’s legs tucked together neatly and Hannibal’sknees were planted nearly on the edges of the bed; Hannibal leaned in to kiss him, lips red and wet, and Will wished that he had chapstick because his own lips were so dry. He turned his head at the last moment, not wanting to have that fucking mouth against his, huffing sharply as Hannibal’s hand returned to its earlier task of touching Will, the kiss landing on his cheek. 

Hannibal was surrounding him and Will felt panic, deep fear as the lights overhead were blocked out by broad shoulders. He was drowning. Strong fingers, ones that felt like safety, like an anchor, held him firmly and Will tried to push Hannibal away only to feel a sharp pain in his shoulder as he moved delicate torn flesh. He let out a shout—well, he tried to. Hannibal’s mouth covered his, swallowing the noise away and his hand moved faster, pushing him closer to orgasm.

Will’s noises became lower and feral, angry protests, needful pleas—it was all a clusterfuck—his emotions becoming muddled with Hannibal’s, his mind still in turmoil because they were supposed to trust one another and love one another and yet he’d been betrayed so badly and, and oh _god_ , that smooth scar on Hannibal’s palm was touching him and it was like the scar on Will’s own palm was being ignited in tender nerve endings of pleasure.

 _‘Give it to me,’_ he thought, wanting _everything_. 

He choked out a sob as his eyes rolled back in his head as he came, feeling it painfully. His body hadn’t been ready for this kind of physical activity and the pain in his shoulder was making him almost nauseous, ears ringing. An orgasm in this condition came as almost no relief and he lie on his back, eyes closed, trying to get as much oxygen into his lungs as possible. He felt as though he’d just run a marathon and all he wanted was to sleep; finally he opened his eyes all the way, slowly rejoining the living world. His focus was hazy at first, but his brain finally made sense of what he was looking at. Hannibal’s eyes were locked onto his as he licked Will’s release from his palm and fingers decadently, giving content moans as though it was dessert of his own creation. It was a performance—as everything with him was—but it was beautiful and Will’s shame only furthered as he felt his body relax with the afterglow of an orgasm caused by the man he loved—no, he hated Hannibal!

He huffed out a small sob, turning to look the other way. Hannibal leaned in and began to leave small kisses along his neck and throat, his breath hot and sticky. There was insistence and love and this was the Hannibal he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, one that was passionate and devoted and safe…

He realised he was crying and his skin crawled at the gut knowledge that Hannibal was thrilled by the reaction. 

“Fucking rude, Hannibal,” he finally choked out. “I didn’t _want_ that.”

Ah, the magic word: _rude_. Hannibal’s delight at their intimacy melted away into something resembling a smouldering fury and Will shivered at the knowledge Hannibal had become angry with himself for the lack of self restraint and discipline he so prided himself in. He’d just seen that he’d taken his game a step too far and as a result, had found himself the _loser_.  

“No.” Hannibal’s eyes searched his face. “No, I suppose you didn’t.”

It was as much of an apology as Hannibal was capable of making and as he climbed off the narrow hospital bed, he murmured, “You need to rest.” The elegant man—still slightly disheveled—leaned in and kissed him gently on the brow, a mimicry of what care and concern felt like, going through the expected motions of a lover in a hospital. “Sleep and I’ll keep watch, sweet boy.”

“Fuck you,” Will murmured.

But his eyelids were heavy and his body was tired beyond belief. His heart monitor was turned back on as he fell asleep and the beeping rose to read his still pounding heart, but quickly dropped to something relaxed before anyone could come in to check on him. 

*****

When Will awoke that evening, he was alone in the room and while he didn’t want to see Hannibal, he felt…

 _abandoned_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal makes unaccepted advances on Will, who is unable to fight back.


	5. Chapter Five

Five days after Will had been shot, he was cleared to leave the Kick Clinic, though the doctor didn’t seem pleased that he was going home without any additional care. He wasn’t going to be bullied into transferring into another facility closer to Wolf Trap or DC. He’d had enough of hospitals in the past year—encephalitis and gun shot, both times because of Hannibal. 

And thankful, Hannibal had kept his fucking mouth shut and not voiced his own opinions on the matter. 

In fact, during the two additional days in the clinic, Hannibal remained only to keep quiet company; Will spent much of the time watching Deadliest Catch reruns while Hannibal did god-only-knew-what on his iPad. There were limited exchanges between them, though Will could feel when Hannibal’s eyes were on him, seeking the nonverbal cues Will was giving off. Sometimes words of observation that any doctor might pass along, other times gentle suggestions that a beloved might offer. Will did his best not to talk back. 

Sleeping in the same room with him with only a thin cloth curtain between them had been torture; Will had spent both nights with his right hand extended out to the curtain, fingers almost touching it as he allowed the tears to roll silently down his cheeks. 

Meals had been spent without Hannibal in the room; Abigail would arrive for breakfast and dinner, always a bag of fast food, an attempt to prove to him that the food was ‘safe’. He’d eat his McDonald’s in silence with her as she’d catch him up on whatever political matters her office was dealing with or what she’d been allowed to temporarily take over while her father was away from the White House; she was ignoring his own discomfort at her presence, probably at the prompting of her father. While he was still disgusted with her, he also felt an overwhelming amount of responsibility for her—she was just as much a victim in this as he was. 

When Will was to be discharged from the hospital, he put on the clothes that Abigail had brought over during breakfast, all of them ones he’d stashed in his own small space of the Presidential wardrobe. Tired white briefs that needed to be replaced ages ago, but he’d never really been able to find the time for it. A pair of brown corduroys that Hannibal had bought for him and a light blue shirt that Tony the nurse had to help him into, blathering small talk as he slipped Will’s arm carefully through the sleeve, buttoning it up quickly and mercifully not trying to make eye contact. A cardigan was draped over his shoulders, hiding the sling his arm was in and allowing him to feel a little less vulnerable and he had to have help with his socks and shoes; the socks were unfamiliar and no doubt ones Hannibal had purchased for him—as Will was prone to not leaving his socks at the White House—and the shoes were comfortable loafers. 

Then he was seated in a wheelchair, joined by a vaguely familiar agent that usually worked the evening detail at the White House. Tony pushed the wheelchair and spoke with him, upbeat and careful, treating him with the same care one would with damaged goods; Will blocked him out, not wanting to listen to anything about how ‘great’ Hannibal was. The wheelchair had a overly tightened bolt somewhere and let out an awful noise every few feet, but it was a welcome distraction to focus on.

A Secret Service SUV was waiting at the front of the Clinic for him and he climbed into the back seat, allowing an agent to help him in, trying to ignore the flash of photographers’ cameras and the shouts of the media trying to catch his attention for a quick soundbite. He didn’t say goodbye to Tony, aware that Hannibal would have found that incredibly rude, though the nurse would no doubt be understanding and sympathetic after what Will had gone through in the past five days.

The drive to Wolf Trap was slow—well, no, it wasn’t slow, it was simply empty. The agents around him in the vehicle were uncomfortable—he was the reason two agents had been fired and the reason Brian Zeller’s head was next on the chopping block. The weather was mockingly sunny and bright, though the air held a slight chill, reminding everyone that it was going to be the first of October tomorrow. Cars passed by them on the interstate, a few slowing in curiosity as they recognised the sight of a security vehicle, but most drove past completely ambivalent; the media vans drove recklessly on ahead, trying to beat them to Wolf Trap and not bothering with capturing images of him through the blacked out windows. On occasion the scanner and transmitter in the vehicle would emit quiet blips and coded words for the agent driving, sounds that were meaningless to Will but most likely had to do with the traffic conditions concerning the drive and any safety precautions needed. 

As they arrived on the outskirts of Wolf Trap, Will decided to pull the White House BlackBerry he still had in his possession and look at what he was to expect. None of the agents were talking to him still, and the Tattle-Politics app he’d installed months ago seemed as though it might be the only resource to prepare him for the circus he was about to expect. 

Lounds had a fairly big spread on Will’s homecoming: photos that had been collected over months, multiple articles from experts speculating on his injuries, various rumours as to who shot him, a handful of polls the readers could vote on, and promises of ‘live twitter updates’. It was all expected and all unsavoury. He turned the phone off when he heard the agent riding shotgun clear his throat and he looked up to see the camp of reporters and news vans parked on the side of the road by the entrance to his property.  

“Jesus,” Will muttered. 

Large security shields had been erected around the roadside on the outside of the wire fences around his property; it was common for Secret Service to create barriers between the media and persons of interest—Will simply never though he’d be one of them. As the SUV rolled onto the gravelly road, he studied what was awaiting him; he’d last seen his house five days prior and yet it felt like a lifetime ago. 

There were about a dozen Secret Service vehicles which made sense considering the Presidential motorcade was parked in front of his house. It seemed Hannibal had wanted the dramatic entrance the media desired, to make sure the news crews present were lured out to Will’s homecoming, creating a story around their perceived friendship and the loyalty that had built between them. Naturally there were photographers and camera men/women creeping around the weeds at the edges of the property hoping to get a glimpse of him, but the army of agents milling around forced them to leave before Will exited the SUV. The sun above was low enough to indicate that it wasn’t afternoon yet and he felt the absence of his watch heavily—he wondered if Hannibal had it, as it hadn’t been in the bag of his possessions the Clinic had returned to him upon his departure. 

Hannibal stood on the front porch by the door that was held open, immaculate and stoic, not belonging amidst the peeling paint of the house and the unkempt field. His lips formed a small smile, most likely for anyone with a telephoto lens. Will did not return the smile, noting how loud his footsteps sounded on the weathered wood.

“Mr President,” Will murmured as he walked past him into the house.

Hannibal followed after him as he came to stand in the centre of his living room. “How was the drive home?”

Will didn’t bother replying, his attention instead on Abigail emerged who had from the kitchen, her sweater sleeves rolled up and she was beaming at him. He could smell the bleach on her hands and wondered what she’d been cleaning; he averted his eyes, feeling very claustrophobic in the house filled with people.  

“We wanted everything nice for when you got back,” she confessed, coming over to him, her hands already lifting up to embrace him.

“Well, I see that you both certainly made yourself at home.”

His tone was icier than intended. Will glanced down at the fireplace he’d thrown his rope bracelet into and saw that it was no longer there, the ashes cleaned out. Hannibal must have retrieved it—Abigail would be a hysterical mess if it had been her—and Will’s jaw tightened. He side stepped awkwardly to make it clear he didn’t want to be touched. 

She looked confused, but then her expression softened with understanding. “Oh right, your shoulder.”

“Yeah, my _shoulder_.”

The entire house had been cleaned—swept, vacuumed, washed—down to the last corner, void of the dirt and dog hair that had accumulated over the years. He suspected that Hannibal had hired a professional house cleaning service for this task and had humoured Abigail by allowing her small chores. Perhaps she’d been bleaching the sink. He glanced around the room, noting that everything was in its place and yet felt disrupted—he could almost see the auras left by other hands on his belongings and tightened his hands into fists. 

“Why don’t we allow Will a moment to rest?” Hannibal suggested to Abigail cordially, looking Will over.“We shall take your bag up to your room.”

“Fine.”

The two went up the staircase, murmuring to one another in what was most likely Lithuanian. Will huffed and sat down heavily on his couch, wincing as he strained his shoulder; he’d never stopped to think about what muscles were used throughout his body for mundane tasks, but now he was conscious of it entirely. His living room walls felt as though they were closing in on him, the agents who’d posted themselves by the staircase creaking as they shifted their weight. He struggled to get off the couch and let out a small, distressed noise; Barney appeared out of no where at his side and slipped a large hand under Will’s elbow, pulling him up with ease, and Will nodded his head gratefully. 

Drifting into the kitchen—which caused the cluster of agents to disperse, hanging around the edges to watch him—Will picked over the mail that had been stacked neat and precise on the kitchen counter; about fifty envelopes of varying size with handwritten addresses on the front, indicating they were get-well cards and as he looked them over, he recogised various names in the return addresses that belonged to assorted family members of the President and Vice President. Ignoring the cards, not interested in the sympathy or pity of people who didn’t truly know him, he opened the fridge, wanting a beer. He couldn’t hide his surprise at the sight of a completely stocked fridge, filled with fresh produce and neatly arranged containers of milk and other edibles to replace the ones he never had in the first place. Someone in the kitchen doorway cleared their throat and he glanced over, even though he was well aware of who it was. 

Abigail’s voice was a little louder than usual, the happiness almost frantic. “We, uh, restocked your refrigerator. I wanted to make you some dinners to reheat, but uh, Daddy said it would be good for you to get the exercise from chopping your own vegetables and fish.”

“Did he?” Will asked in a cool tone, noting that there were indeed packaged fresh fish; they’d been left with their skins on as a gesture to prove their origin.

“Yeah, can’t have you lose use of your shoulder.” She offered a smile that looked more pained than anything. “Course if it was up to me, I’d just cook for you. Let you rest.”

“You could just lock me up in a little cage and pass the treats through the bars when you came to visit,” he sneered, shutting the door.

She swallowed uncomfortably and he felt like an asshole—who the fuck taunted a seventeen year old?

“If there’s anything else you need for your kitchen…” She seemed to have lost her enthusiasm. “You can call me and I’ll have Georgia bring it out. Or me, if you’d want.”

The end of her sentence shook and busied himself with the envelopes that he’d already decided he wasn’t interested in. “I’ll be able to shop on my own.”

 _‘She actually cares that I’m hurt.’_ It made him feel sick.

Hannibal entered the kitchen and the tightness in his Will’s chest made him feel as though his chest was bound by ropes; he took a step back, bumping into the counter. Hannibal could no doubt smell his fear, but he didn’t care. 

“Why don’t you both just leave? It’s a busy day, I’m sure, and you’ll want to get out and get back to your regular scheduling.” His voice was louder than usual. 

Hannibal nodded. “Very well.”

Abigail frowned, glancing between them. “Aren’t we going to have lunch together?”

“I’m not hungry, Abigail,” Will said quickly.

“Oh.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Okay, well…if you need anything…” She gave him one last hopeful smile.

Will turned his face away. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Good afternoon, President Lecter. First Lady.”

“Bye,” Abigail murmured as Hannibal led her away.

And with that, agents dispersed, the motorcade left, the press vans drove off and Will was left alone.

Well, not quite. 

There was an agent still remaining in the living room, standing patiently at attention in a neat suit, a small rise in the left side of his jacket that indicated he was indeed armed. He had a small mouth that was twisted into the hint of a smile and bright, small eyes that followed Will’s movements hawk-like. He also had very distinct ears. 

“Good afternoon, Mr Graham.”

The words rolled off the man’s tongue and Will noted a lisp that had been almost completely repressed, probably through years of forced practice, not official speech therapy. 

“Who are you?” Will supposed the question was rhetorical, but the way the man was looking at him, he could feel their was something more to his presence than simply acquainting himself.

The man held out a hand to Will. “Agent Matthew Brown. I’m your new shadow.”

“I don’t work at the White House anymore.” Will walked past him, making the point clear. 

Brown shrugged, his tone “Doesn’t matter. You’re still the President’s boyfriend.”

“The President and I aren’t anything.”

“Not according to him.” Brown’s eyes don’t seek his anymore, respectfully turned away. “Anyway, I’m supposed to follow you.”

“Well, I’m sure the taxpayers will be thrilled to know a non-employee is getting a full time agent,” he snipped. 

“I don’t think they’ll mind if they don’t know.”

“Ignorance is bliss,” he agreed. “Let me show you the house.”

Brown dipped his head slightly as he smiled. “I was given a tour earlier.”

“I see,” Will said tightly. He already hated the thought of his house being open season to Hannibal’s whims, but this felt as though Brown had been given an unfair advantage, though he wasn’t sure as to what. He gave a dismissive twitch of his hand.“Well, do whatever you need to do. I’ll be staying indoors today.”

“Sounds good.” Will bet the other man was following behind him silently into the kitchen and it was only confirmed when the other man’s voice expressed quietly. “You know, we’re allowed to be friends. They pair agents to their subjects based on personality.”

Will glanced over his shoulder to look at the man’s carefully knotted tie. “And you have a personality to compliment mine?”

Brown’s head tilted slightly, looking thoughtful. “They thought so.”

“The last time I made a friend, I ended up getting shot, so you’ll have to excuse me for not wanting to make the same mistake twice.”

Brown was quiet for a moment and then changed the subject. “I’m told you’re a fisher, Mr Graham?”

“Yes.”

“That’s really nice. And you fish in the park?” He nodded his head towards the back of the house, in the direction of the Wolf Trap National Park of the Performing Arts.

Will, along with other residents of the town, had been granted special permits to go fish in the wooded area, which was enjoyable because it meant he never ran into anyone. “Yes, I do.”

Brown’s small smile returned. “I can’t wait to join you.”

As Will poured himself a glass of water, he gave a sidelong glance to the refrigerator. “If you want any of the food in the fridge, feel free to take it. I don’t want any of it.”

“Are you hungry?” Brown asked.

Will blinked, unsure if he’d heard him properly. “What?”

“Are you hungry? I can hear your stomach.” Brown glanced down at his abdomen then tried to make eye contact again.

Will shook his head. “I’ve got a tv dinner.”

“Want me to get it out for you?”

“Uh, no. I’m fine.”

“No problem, Mr Graham. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go out and talk with the other agents.” Brown took a side step to the back door, but didn’t leave the kitchen immediately. 

“Okay.” Will remembered that personal agents were supposed to know everything about _everything_ and while he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic with having that in his life, he didn’t have the energy to fight it. “Oh, um, I’m going to wander upstairs.”

Brown nodded.

Alone, Will climbed the staircase determinedly, feeling pathetic for how weakened he was. He trudged slowly down the short hallway, glancing at the guest room—it no longer looked like a storehouse for all his crap, but a respectable place to sleep. He paused in the doorway of his own bedroom, feeling a knot form in his throat. 

His bed sheets replaced with a cranberry red flannel that caused his mouth to water, a pavlovian response to association of it being the same colour as the sweet sorbet Hannibal had served often for dessert over the summer. A comforter had been folded at the foot of the bed and a quilt that had a red, white, and blue lone star pattern across the top. His old pillows had been replaced and doubled, a luxurious new bed that mocked him. This is where he would be sleeping alone for the rest of his life and he could picture Hannibal’s golden body stretched out against the red warmth, eyes beckoning him closer. 

He stepped into the room and found all of his laundry had been washed and folded, placed in the dresser; his chest tightened as he recognised Hannibal’s folding style in the stacks of shirts in the top drawer, running his hand over the soft cloth. He felt as though he was mourning the death of someone. Maybe he had died after all and he was feeling the loss of who he had been before Hannibal existed.

Moving to the hall closet, he saw that all of his bed sheets had been replaced with new ones in rich jewel tones, all cotton flannel and smooth sateens. Extra towels had been stacked inside and he could smell the cedar blocks set inside the closet to combat the formerly musty scent that had settled in there for years prior. There were flowers around the house and he wondered if they were ones that had been sent by strangers or if they’d been created in the White House’s flower department; they were nice, though—he was undecided if he’d throw them out just yet.

Back downstairs, Brown had returned and was standing in the kitchen, hands clasped before him, looking over the cabinets. Will ignored him, going to the junk drawer next to the fridge; he grimaced at the sight of the neatly written reheating instructions Hannibal had sent home with his food and he snatched the piece of paper out, crumpling it and taking it to the living room. Setting it on fire in the clean fireplace, he trudged back to the kitchen and retrieved the business card he’d been looking for.

“Would you mind if I had a cup of coffee?” Agent Brown asked.

Will shook his head, turning the card over to look at the handwritten private extension and setting it on the counter so he could reach for the cordless phone. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

Will leant against the counter, dialing the number on the card. The phone rang twice before it was answered by Steven Knapp, the president of GWU. “Hello?” 

Will thought of Hannibal’s smile. “Hello, this is Will Graham. I was wondering if you had hired on my replacement permanently…”

*****

Abigail was slouched on the sofa in the living room that evening, one of Alana’s beers in her hands. She also had a vintage red decanting on the coffee table with a chilled glass waiting to be used. When her father walked into the room, he glanced own at the bottle she had and asked curiously, “What are you doing, darling?”

She sat up slightly to make room for him on the couch.“Trying to get drunk.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m trying to feel what Will feels.”

He smiled at this and she smiled back. He sat down on the couch and she curled up against him, head tilted back against his shoulder and pulling his arm around her warmly; she was self-conscious of how her breath smelt and made the effort to turn her face as she took another drink of the beer. They were quiet for a moment and he stroked the side of her head. 

“Ugh, this isn’t working,” she finally admitted. 

“No, my flower. You’re not one to get drunk. Will has a predisposition to alcoholism.” He removed the bottle from her hand and took a drink.

“Why won’t he just come home?” she asked.

“Mmm, once bitten, twice shy.” 

The beer was set down on a coaster on a side table beside his arm.

She frowned. “How long will this take? My social calendar is busy because of the holiday season approaching.”

Her father laughed softly. “You shall have to make time, Abigail. You mustn’t be impatient. Isn’t Will worth waiting for?”

“But this time he’s expecting it,” she reminded, which worried her greatly.

“Which will make his return all the more joyous,” he insisted. 

She thought of how Will hadn’t wanted to hug her when they’d welcomed him back to Wolf Trap. “I want him back before my birthday.”

Her father made a tsking noise. “Thirty-four days is not a realistic goal.”

“He’s not going to miss my birthday. How could he?” She worried the inside of her cheek. “Make him.”

“My love.” He gave a sigh. “It’s not that simple. The alcohol is inhibiting your ability to think clearly.”

“He loves you. He’ll do anything you say.”

“Like you?”

“Yes.” She frowned at the feeling of his chest moving in laughter. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m sorry. It’s rude of me,” he agreed, as though that was where the problem lie. 

She closed her eyes and listened to his steady heartbeat. Life had been so easy when it had just been the two of them, the world their oyster. And then Will came along and made it beautiful. Now that he was gone, she could see how quickly things were being stripped of both their beauty and simplicity, which upset her; perhaps she was lazy, but she wanted to maintain the hedonistic fantasy she’d been handed on a silver platter without any work. This was what becoming an adult felt like. She didn’t like it.

“I love you.” She felt the rise and fall of his chest.

“I know,” he murmured, his hand resting on the side of her head, keeping her close. 

*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is a slower, shorter chapter this week. I'm not feeling well and I wanted to get something posted before Friday.
> 
> I've also been informed that political!AU Will/Matthew is called "Gay Eagles", so use that accordingly, haha :D
> 
> Also, I posted the National Anthem OST last week! Two different download links and I hope you enjoy it :) http://archiveofourown.org/works/1522934


	6. Chapter Six

As they sat together for breakfast the following morning, Hannibal watched Abigail fuss with her hair, which was curious as she had outgrown that habit years ago; but she did look particularly pretty today, dressed in oxblood and navy, the gold charm bracelet Bedelia had gifted her when she was child around her wrist. Something was on her mind, most likely concerning him, and he held back a smile, forever touched that he was truly the centre of her world.

“I should be your assistant while Will is recovering,” she told him as she refilled his orange juice without asking.

He added another paper thin slice of prosciutto to her eggs in retaliation. “No, my flower. You need to remain in your office. You’ve already abandoned your post once before at the unfortunate loss of Miss Starling.”

She frowned. “And so who will take care of you?”

“I believe I shall ask dear Uncle Jack to assist.”

At this he could see the first edges of concern turning into fear as her eyes met his. “Is that wise?”

He gave her a teasing smile. “What could he possibly do?”

She eased slightly and arranged her food neatly on her fork, then considered, “Will Dr Sutcliffe have to fill in as Chief of Staff?”

“I believe so.”

She gave her food another pensive look as she chewed her eggs. “Hmmm.”

He paused in his food. “Something wrong?”

She took her time swallowing, and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, before looking back to him. “I’m just…cautious when it comes to him.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

As they were both very aware of the nature of her agenda with Sutcliffe, the warning sounding almost comedic; she gave an embarrassed smile to her breakfast and he fought back a laugh.

“I understand,” he assured her, placing his hand atop hers, reinforcing the trust between them. 

She nodded. “Good.” 

The phone tucked in his jacket buzzed. {H—Secret Service Head of Internal Affairs is here. She’ll meet you in Treaty Room} 

The text from Jack was an irritation, but important; he still wasn’t accustomed to the interruptions during his meals due to his phone. It was unpleasant and rude, but even he could see the necessity of staying abreast of all situations at all time.

“I’m afraid I must leave.”

“I’ll clean up,” Abigail offered and he touched her cheek fondly.

“A thousand prayers for your generosity,” he teased. He wiped at his mouth with his napkin and then stood from the table, placing a kiss on her forehead before leaving the room.

After brushing his teeth and checking his appearance in his bathroom mirror, he allowed the agents assigned to him escort him to the Treaty Room. Since the incident at the Meyerhoff, his personal detail had become stricter about maintaining near constant visual contact with him in the Residence. 

At his right elbow, Katz spoke up. “I, uh, wanted to give you a heads up—her interests lie in what’s best for you and for the integrity of the Presidency.”

He glanced to her. “What are you hesitant in telling me?”

She gave an uncomfortable smile. “She’s…not a fan.”

“She’s a Republican.”

Katz shook her head. “No, no. She doesn’t like how you’ve restructured so much of the Secret Service’s role in the White House.”

“I see.” The amount of changes he’d made within the Secret Service’s protocol for the Residence and his personal protection was practically criminal and he’d been prepared for upset senior agents for months now, so he wasn’t concerned. “Thank you, Agent Katz.” Turning to his right, he thought it might be interesting to get his senior agent off balance. “Agent Price, I understand that an Agent Verger is available for—“

Price immediately put up a fight. “Yeah, you have a bit of history with her kin, so I’m going to have to recommend that you don’t ask for her.”

“Agent Price.” Hannibal came to a halt in the hallway, finding the interruption and attitude unacceptable. “I would like to speak with her first before I make a decision.”

“Mr President…” Price made a face, his eyes not quite maintaining contact. “I know you’ve had a lot happen in the past nine months, but I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Hannibal looked at the other man critically. “You don’t think I hurt her brother, do you?”

“No! Of course not. That guy was a psycho. But I don’t know what she thinks.”

“I understand she is estranged from her brother,” Hannibal said casually. “Have her sent to my office before she leaves her post this evening. That will be all, Agent Price.”

He dismissed both agents from entering the room where a woman in a lavender suit stood, clutching a briefcase. She took a step forward, exuding power and control that Hannibal could appreciate. 

“President Lecter, I’m Agent Kade Purnell.”

He shook her hand then gestured to the desk. “A pleasure to meet you. Shall we sit?”

“Thank you.” 

Her briefcase was opened and the contents neatly arranged on her half of the desk and Hannibal took in the information quickly. Her demeanor was professional, he recognised a sudden aggressive edge to her movements; she was looking for a fight. 

He smiled—he was always willing to give her one. 

Purnell’s eyes didn’t look down at the file she’d opened. “Now, I see Graham is listed is a 1-87 in his security file. Is that correct?”

He shook his head slightly. “I am unfamiliar with the term?”

“A 1-87 is a mistress. The White House side lay.” Purnell practically sneered the words. 

Hannibal allowed the smile to leave his lips and very neutrally clarified,  “He and I are in a relationship.”

She busied herself with the papers in her briefcase. “Yes, well, anyone that’s not public knowledge is a 1-87. And I don’t particularly care for the mess they cause. And they always cause a mess.”

Hannibal exhaled slowly, indicating to her that he wasn’t going rise to her petty and snide remarks; he maintained a steady gaze, not allowing himself to blink—it was a trait that unsettled people and with a person such as Kade, he needed every advantage he had available to him.

“I’m fully briefed on Agent Katz’s, Agent Price’s, Agent Roberts’, Agent Donnelly’s, Agent Ford’s, and of course Agent Zeller’s statements. Now I need yours. Let’s start from the beginning,” she instructed, removing a pen to write on a legal notepad she’d produced. 

He nodded. “I arrived at the Meyerhoff at approximately 12:03 AM on September—“ 

“No, from the fight,” she interrupted, looking aggravated. 

“I’m sorry?”

“The fight you had the night before Mr Graham was shot.”

“Fight with whom?” He maintained his neutral expression.  

“With Mr Graham.” Purnell grit her teeth and exhaled to demonstrate her exasperation. “Agent Zeller indicated that at approximately 20:00, he entered the Residential Kitchen to investigate sounds of a disturbance. He reported that Mr Graham was holding a kitchen knife while yelling at both you and the First Lady.”

Hannibal folded his hands neatly on the desk and looked at her curiously. “I was unaware there was a formal incident report for that day. May I see it?”

“There isn’t a formal report. Agent Zeller decided not to follow protocol and didn’t file one.”

“So then it _didn’t_ happen.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “I’m sure if you were to ask the First Lady and Mr Graham, they would say the same thing.”

In fact, Abigail had been instructed not to give any details, but not to deny the disagreement. The more conflicting statements, the better. Purnell’s glare deserved to be preserved and mounted on the buttresses of the West Wing to ward off anyone who might wish harm to the inhabitants. Her frustration and anger heated her skin, leading to the strengthened scent of her perfume, something that should have signaled a delicate woman in a delicate situation, a scent for frail things. But this Kade Purnell was nothing to scoff at and while she was attempting to make his life difficult, she was a challenge and his smile returned. 

*****

Abigail tapped the eraser of her pencil against her bottom lip, contemplating the most recent news article on Tattle-Politic, an interview with former President Chilton; always the opportunist, he’d been more than happy to blab to the news outlets about his dinner at the White House the night before Will had been shot. His smug expression and almost fanatical gestures added to the dramatics of the story he told to Mika and Joe on ‘Morning Joe’ that morning as she dressed for the day, and she had already aware that he’d be on other talk shows for the rest of the week.

Of course Lounds was always ready to take a story about Will in an uncomfortable direction; the words of the article hissed of her distrust of Will, that she was certain that a cover up was happening, a conspiracy that needed to be uncovered and that President Chilton himself wondered if something was still wrong with Will, if he was an actual threat that the Secret Service had been forced to act upon. This was a problem—Abigail was aware that at some point (most likely after her father was elected for a second term) it would become public that Will was ‘more’ than just a friend to her father, and the last thing that needed to become the focus of the relationship was of ‘bad influences’ in the White House. 

But there was time to worry about that later. She set the pencil down on her desk, turning her attention to her Chief of Staff. “Mrs Madchen, for my trip to China, will you schedule a trip to the Wong Tai Sin Temple and drop the trip to the Immaculate Conception Cathedral of Hong Kong? I think Daddy would prefer to see me at somewhere unique to Hong Kong’s religious history—the Catholic aspect is overplayed at this point.”

“Of course.” Her Chief of Staff quickly amended the agenda on her Blackberry and Abigail crossed that matter off her mental list, though before she had a chance to continue onto the next matter of business, the older woman cleared her throat. “Abigail, we should probably about you calling your dad ‘Daddy’,” Mrs Madchen said with a hesitant smile, seeming to not want to offend Abigail given how snippy she’d been as of late.

Abigail had been anticipating this conversation for some time now, her own response to the matter carefully chosen and waiting to be used. For years she’d enjoyed the headspace the name brought her to, the gentle calm and serene childhood her father had granted her; it had been the moment she’d felt safest, that moment he’d told her that they had that bond between them. She could hear the echos of her classmates on her first day of school at Sidwell Friends taunting her because of the name she’d always called him and Uncle Jack telling her that she was a ‘big girl now, and you don’t want your dad’s voters to think you’re not a big girl, don’t you?’ And she’d be forced to tuck it all away, having to sneak its usage as though she needed to be ashamed of it. 

She leaned back in her chair, hands steepled on the desk. “No, we’re not going to talk about it because after ten years of people saying I can’t call him, ‘Daddy’, I’ve decided that I’m old enough to choose what I want to call him.” She straightened her shoulders back so she looked a little more imposing, though was careful not to seem threatening. “No one thinks lesser of my Aunt Bedelia for calling her father ‘Daddy’. She’s Vice President of the United States right now. Aside from that stupid party with Marissa, I am regarded as a mature young woman and I don’t appreciate anyone implying that what I call the man who is my only immediate family makes me a child. I _am_ his child. And I consider this matter closed.”

Mrs Madchen didn’t look pleased at all, but nodded her head. “Very well.”

Abigail had little time to feel excited over this new development as the door to her office opened and a woman dressed in a dusky lavender suit walked in, briefcase in one hand and a visitor’s badge attached to her lapel. Mrs Madchen left Abigail’s side, wearing a grimace on her face as she stalked over to the woman; people didn’t just walk into her office without an escort unless they were high ranking within the Secret Service themselves. Barney, who sat on a comfortable bench by the door and had been reading a book, watched her with warily. Mrs Madchen was talking quietly to the woman, her body language betraying her discomfort, and Abigail wet her lips in anticipation; she had a fairly good idea of who this interloper was and as she stood from her desk, she could see a small enameled lapel button with the Secret Service emblem.

Abigail smiled as Mrs Madchen realised she had no choice but to allow the woman to talk to her and she walked around the side of her desk to greet her.

The woman extended her hand to Abigail. “Hello, First Lady Lecter. I’m Secret Service Agent Kade Purnell, from the United States Treasury Department, Internal Affairs for the Uniformed Division.”

Abigail kept her handshake firm, professional, and brief, the way her aunt and father did, and her smile inviting. “Hello, Agent Purnell. I’ve been expecting you. I understand you want to ask me some questions. May I show you to my private conference room?” She motioned to the open door to her right.

Purnell seemed to relax slightly at the lack of resistance. “Thank you.”

After they seated themselves at the conference table and Abigail had shut the door behind her, she brought over the serving tray that had been set on a side table. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“I’m fine.” 

Purnell opened her briefcase and removed a file and a clipboard with a legal note pad in light blue; Abigail pretended to busy herself with pouring water from a pitcher, though in truth she was busy noting anything she could use against the agent. This was an old and easy game— _“The art of manipulation, Abigail. Do you see that you have a gift to make a person bend to your whims with a simple word or movement? You become what they want to see and as a result, they will feel no other desire than to make you happy,”_ her father had taught her soon after Uncle Abel was locked away. _“Look for what they want and then offer it to them.”_

Abigail excelled at this particular gift, as her father had been the best teacher. She feared nothing that was to be brought up this morning. Purnell looked up at her, matching the smile Abigail had never put away.

“I need to ask you a few questions about Agent Zeller, Will Graham, and the President.”

Abigail nodded and folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Of course. Anything you need.”

It took the agent a moment to sort through the papers she needed and Abigail suspected it was all for show, something to make her wait and wonder what she might possibly have to say.  

“How would you describe Agent Zeller in the time he spent as your personal agent?”

She smiled. “Really friendly. I felt very comfortable with him, very safe. He was very professional. There were a few times I wanted him to bend the rules for me and he wouldn’t. And he didn’t get angry with me, just explained that he couldn’t and why.”

And that was true. Brian hadn’t been adaptable like Barney was. 

Purnell nodded and paused in her writing. “How would you describe Agent Zeller’s feelings towards Mr Graham?”

Abigail flexed her fingers slightly, making sure her tone stayed matter-of-fact. “Well, back in 2012, he didn’t quite care for Will. No one really did because they thought something was wrong with him, but we later realised he was sick and so Will was given a second chance by almost everyone. Agent Zeller was mostly indifferent to Will from what I saw. He never said anything bad about him. If he was worried about my safety, he would have said something about it to me, Daddy, or Agent Matthews; he never keeps his mouth shut if something bothers him.” She pretended to think for a moment, watching what Purnell was writing, even if she couldn’t read it. “No, I can’t think of anything he ever said to me about feeling uncomfortable with Will.”

“Now, I understand that only a handful of people are aware of the relationship between your father and Mr Graham as being romantic.” Purnell tilted her head slightly to the side and looked up from her file. “May I ask your feelings on the arrangement?”

“I love Will as though he was my own father. I’m very accepting of homosexual relationships, including one that involves my father.” She could feel her father’s words slipping out of her mouth in her own voice, calm and clinical.

“So Agent Zeller wouldn’t have a reason to think you want Mr Graham out of your life?” Purnell seemed encouraged that this was the reason for everything that happened. 

Abigail was horrified. “No! No, everyone knows how much I love Will.”

Purnell wrote a few more notes and then inquired, “What is Agent Zeller’s stance on your father’s relationship with Mr Graham?”

“We never talked about it?” She gave a shrug—something her father had suggested last night when they discussed how they would answer questions. “Um, I don’t think he cared. It wasn’t something that mattered to him either way. Everyone knows my family’s stance on homosexual relationships and I’m sure if Agent Zeller had a problem with it, he would have sought reassignment. Agents are allowed to do that, right? They can leave if they don’t like the person they’re assigned to watch after?”

“It’s frowned upon, but they can.” Purnell looked guarded, but her tone became surprisingly gentle, as though she felt she’d finally figured out how to communicate with Abigail. “I need to ask you about the fight you had three nights ago. I understand that Agent Zeller walked in on the three of you in the kitchen.”

“I’m not going to tell you what we argued about, but yes, Agent Zeller came in because he heard the three of us shouting.” Before Purnell’s frown could become a scowl, Abigail attempted damage control. “The topic of the argument isn’t relevant, I swear” she insisted.  

Purnell looked down at her file and then back up to her. “Did you know that Agent Zeller and Mr Graham had a physical confrontation in the staff parking lot after the argument in the kitchen?”

Abigail frowned but didn’t allow the full extent of her shock show. “I wasn’t.” It seemed there were still things her father was keeping from her about what exactly happened.

“Does that surprise you?”

She nodded, her mind trying to piece together what might have happened. “It does. Neither man likes confrontation.”

Purnell pursed her lips slightly and wrote on her tablet. Abigail allowed her pleasant, albeit slightly concerned, expression to disappear, watching the other woman like a hawk; she’d definitely given her all the responses she could possibly want, ones her father would approve of, but she was worried this could get out of her control if she wasn’t careful.

The agent broke the silence and looked back up to her? “Could you tell me how many people know about your father and Mr Graham’s relationship?”

“Would you like me to give you a list of names?”

“That would be ideal.”

“Alana Bloom, my aunt Bedelia, myself, and whatever agents that have access to my dad.” She also added, “And Jack Crawford.”

“A very small circle of trust,” Purnell commented.

Abigail folded her hands on the table and leaned in. “Could you imagine what would happen if this information became public? It would be chaos.”

“I agree.”

As the other woman continued to write quickly, Abigail cocked her head to the side and decided to seize the opportunity presented to her. “Agent Purnell?” she asked.

Purnell’s eyes flicked up to hers. “Yes?” 

“You understand the importance of not making anyone aware of this, don’t you?”

“I do.” Her eyes were suddenly cautious, definitely able to read between the lines of what Abigail was trying to say.

“And you understand that if it were to leak, it wouldn’t allow the President to do his job?”

“I do.”

Abigail leaned in slightly. “So you agree with me that there should be no leaks? At any cost?”

Purnell looked her over once again, lips starting to curl in a smile. “You know, many people doubt your ability to be a First Lady, considering your age. But I think you’d make an excellent politician.” 

Abigail blushed. “That’s very kind of you. It’s my duty to make sure my President can do everything he needs to, to ensure he has a successful eight years in office.” Abigail straightened her coaster on the conference table before continuing. “I know you probably think that Agent Zeller might have shot Will in retaliation for the fight, but I know Agent Zeller wouldn’t do that. If Agent Zeller shot Will, it was because he reacted to his training, not his emotions. He must have thought my dad was in immediate danger and misinterpreted whatever he was seeing.” She gave the other woman a hopeful smile, one that made her look seventeen and unable to be more than a child. “I know you are just here to find out the truth of what happened and that you make the final decision as to what happens to him, but I think we’d all feel horrible if Brian lost his job because of this.”

Purnell’s eyes no longer held the hard edge—how could anyone ever tell Abigail Lecter ‘no’? “I can take that into consideration.”

The young First Lady leaned back in her seat, not allowing herself to look smug. “Thank you.”

*****

Alana tapped her fingers on the table as Abigail and Hannibal served everyone lunch in the Presidential Dining Room. Her stomach had been twisting in knots—she’d seen the Tattle-Politics article about Will’s return to his home yesterday and then the Chilton interviews this morning; while she wasn’t afraid of confrontation, she was aware that what she needed to say wasn’t going to be easily swallowed. And perhaps this wasn’t the best time to bring up what was on her mind, but this was likely the only time she’d be able to say something to Hannibal about what had her so upset. 

Hannibal was moving about the pantry as he reheated the food they were to eat, holding a conversation with Jack, who sat to her left. 

Jack’s fingers tapped on the top of the table. “So, how long is Will in recovery, Hannibal? I need to find you a temp.”

“You’re not enjoying the job, Jack?” Hannibal’s tone was light and joking, and Alana cringed. 

Jack removed his napkin from the table to lay in his lap. “I’d rather have Will back in place and everything back to norm—“

Alana couldn’t bite her tongue any longer. “I don’t think Will belongs here.”

Hannibal stepped out of the pantry, holding two plates of food that were meant to be brought out, his eyebrows lifted; Abigail—whom had been setting out the drinks--stood at his side, an equal look of shock on her face.

Alana took the silence as her opportunity to continue. “His emotional well being and his complete mental state has done nothing but go downhill since working here. Hannibal, he should never have been allowed to look at those Chesapeake Ripper files and if I’m perfectly honest, I don’t think you should be looking at them either.” She rounded on the man sitting beside her. “Jack, you should never asked him to come back here. You should never have even asked him to help with the election. He does not need to get inside people’s minds. You know that. You took advantage of it.” She’d lost her appetite at this point and crossed her arms as she leaned back in her chair. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person who has his best interest in mind.”

“How—how dare you,” Abigail sputtered. “Are you saying you know better than my father and me?”

Alana frowned and shook her head. “Abigail, Will is a very vulnerable man. And I know you don’t want to hear that—“

“Will is _not_ vulnerable. Vulnerable to what?” Abigail turned to Hannibal, looking furious. “Are you just going to let her talk about Will like that?”

Hannibal didn’t raise his voice, but met his daughter’s stare. “Abigail.”

Abigail’s eyes widened in frustration, her tone young and begging him to do something. “She’s calling him weak.”

“Abigail.”

Abigail pressed her lips together and then as if her anger had never existed, smoothed her expression into something pleasant and neutral, the same expression she offered on the campaign trail. The hair on the back of Alana’s neck stood on end as the young woman clasped her hands in front of her and said primly, 

“If you will excuse me.”

*****

Will was considering how much of the bottle of whiskey in his cupboard he wanted to drink, when Agent Brown knocked on the kitchen door frame and leaned in. “There’s a Mr Franklyn Froideveaux at the edge of the property? Says he has something for you.”

Will forgot about the alcohol and while he wasn’t particularly enthused to see the overly emotive man, he wasn’t exactly wary. “Sure.”

Brown spoke into his handheld radio receiver, the antenna bumping against his ear. “Mr Graham says it’s okay.”

“He’s not a friend. Just someone who wants to be one,” Will explained when he abandoned his post in the kitchen to go wait by the front door, Agent Brown shadowing just behind him close enough that Will was aware of his presence. 

In silence, they stood together, watching as a red and expensive looking car pulled up the driveway. An agent standing around on the porch allowed the man inside the house and Franklyn’s eyes appraised the area.

“Hi, hey, ooh, how do you feel?” His eyes were glued to the sling that supported Will’s left arm, staring with the pleasure of a voyeur. 

Will huffed, irritated and unbalanced by the attention being paid to his injury and was quick to nod his head to the white plastic grocery bag in the man’s hand. “What’s that?”

“Oh! Right!” Franklyn let out a laugh and handed the bag over. “I brought you some snacks and magazines. I thought that you might like them while you’re recovering.”

“That’s very considerate of you.”

And then Franklyn’s insecurity kicked in, causing him to fumble with his words and develop a frown. “I mean, I know it’s not anything like what Dr Lecter is bringing over, but—“

“What do you mean?” Will felt the sudden desire to flee, his hand tightening around the bag’s handles. 

Franklyn looked startled. “What?”

“What is he bringing over?” Will reiterated. 

“Oh, he spoke to the press this morning—didn’t you see it?” When Will didn’t show any comprehension of what he was talking about, Franklyn enthusiastically explained, “He said that as your best friend he’d be personally seeing to your care. Said he would be bringing you dinner, you know check up on your shoulder…” He gave Will a confused smile. “He didn’t tell you?”

“He probably did and I wasn’t paying attention,” Will lied, feeling anger boiling in the pit of his stomach. 

“You’re so lucky. I would give anything to have Dr Lecter as my best friend.” Franklyn then patted his stomach. “Though it might be for the best…”

“You’re welcome to have him when I’m not using him,” Will said with a tight smile and Franklyn laughed again, attention drifting around the kitchen. 

“Did you get the flowers from Governor Budge?” Franklyn asked hopefully.

Will sighed, sensing that there wasn’t anything particularly special about the gesture, just that the other man wanted it recognised. “I must have had two hundred bouquets sent. Sorry.”

“No, of course.” Franklyn’s smile crumbled. “I hope that you at least got to see the card. I wanted to come visit, but Tobias said you probably wouldn’t like that.”

Will gave a silent thanks to ‘Tobias’—that would have been fucking dreadful. “I was under a lot of medication. Probably wouldn’t have even recognised you,” Will lied.

“Oh, yeah, right.” Franklyn still looked disappointed, but not crushed. “Well, if you need anything at all, please let me know. I’d be more than happy to help you. Any friend of Dr Lecter is a friend of mine.”

“Thank you, Franklyn. That’s very nice of you.” Will wanted him out of the house—everything felt smothering and he was becoming claustrophobic. Lying was so easy and he knew that with his injury, he could get away with more than he might otherwise. “Thank you for coming over. I’m sorry I have to cut your visit short, but it’s time for my nap.” He quickly added, “Doctor’s orders.”

“Oh! Right! Okay!” As he walked Franklyn to the front door, the other man turned to look at him over his shoulder, a last ditch effort for conversation. “I bought extra SnoBalls—they’re one of my favourites when I’m feeling sick.”

“Thank you.”

“Remember, call!”

He nodded his head and once Franklyn had turned around and walked down the porch, he dropped the smile and stalked back to the kitchen to sort through the food. He was hungry and still not interested in anything Hannibal had brought over; he was aware that he could have someone else shop for him, but that would mean talking to someone and thinking about food and none of that sounded appealing to him. No, he would just ration the junk food Franklyn had brought for him and live off that until he could bring himself to actually leave the house or have someone retrieve food for him. He’d help himself to a SnoBall first. 

Will barely glanced at the magazines before tossing them on the countertop. “You want any of these?”

Brown came to stand beside him, mindful not to bump their shoulders together. “You’re not interested?”

“Not really my types of magazines.” 

Brown thumbed through the fan of magazines before selecting one. “I’ll look through the car one during my break.” 

Will nodded, grabbing the stack to take to the side table in the living room the Secret Service had deemed theirs. “I’ll leave the rest for the night detail to thumb through.”

*****

Jack came to his office that evening and while he couldn’t see whom he’d glanced at before he shut the door behind, Hannibal knew that if was someone whose presence upset him. “Hannibal, did you ask for Margot Verger?”

Hannibal straightened the papers on his desk. “Yes, I’ve been expecting her. Please tell her to come in.”

Jack frowned and narrowed his eyes before sighing. “I’m guessing that you aren’t going to listen to me when I say that having her as a personal agent is a bad idea.”

“I shall take your suggestion into consideration,” he replied neutrally and as Jack left the office, he watched the person that had been standing outside the door enter. 

Margot Verger was a very pretty woman, one that reflected the feminine half of her family’s beauty; Mason had been a very ‘pretty’ man as well. Both smaller in stature, the Verger twins reminded Hannibal in many ways of expensive porcelain dolls—lips that formed a soft pout, bright eyes that were sharp, and lovely facial symmetry. With Margot, he could see her muscles flexing beneath her suit and he suspected she had a very intense weight-lifting regime in her daily fitness, making her body incredibly lean and well attuned for combat, though it didn’t diminish her beauty in the slightest. She walked with a firm gait, one that spoke volumes to Hannibal of her apprehension to being around him and he wondered if she was anxious of him simply because of the story her brother told. He almost smiled at the thought of her actually believing said story. 

And if she believed that he was indeed responsible for the mutilation of her brother, then there were two directions their relationship could take: the first, she would be incredibly grateful to him for the damage Mason had taken, or the second, that she might seek retribution against him, which would be thrilling. A Secret Service agent that wanted to kill him? Money couldn’t buy that kind of excitement. 

Her eyes scanned the room before standing at attention in front of his desk and he finished signing the orders needed to begin moving Washington DC into the modern century.

“Hello, Agent Verger. Please, have a seat.” He motioned to the couches in the office and then stood to join her. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

Sitting across from her, he relaxed and could read the tension in her body very clearly; no doubt she had her suspicions as to why she’d been invited to talk with him. Anyone who’d been a playmate of Mason didn’t deserve the games, so he spoke what was on his mind, rather than toy with her. 

“Agent Verger, I understand that you applied to be in President Chilton’s detail but were denied. Do you still wish to serve in a Presidential detail?”

Her eyes widened and she nodded. “I would like that. I didn’t apply because I wasn’t sure what you would think.”

Hannibal allowed a small smile. “I would be honoured to have such a distinguished agent beside me.” 

She had such a serious expression. “Thank you, sir.”

He stood from the couch, forcing her to rise as well. “I shall have Agent Price add you to the detail.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hannibal nodded his head once. “You are dismissed, Agent Verger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the late update--I had the flu and then I was busy with holiday work. We should return to our normal viewing schedule of Friday posts. Thank you all for staying to read. :)


	7. Chapter Seven

Will entered the lecture hall to a standing ovation from his students. It had been a week since he’d been discharged from the hospital and while he wasn’t feeling well enough for a full day of lectures, he couldn’t stay at the house. The students were cheering and whistling by the time he’d reached his desk at the front and as Agent Brown deposited Will’s briefcase by his chair and took an inconspicuous position towards the back wall, Will rounded on the students.

“Stop—stop that. Stop that!”

The lauding tapered off to uncomfortable glances and people shuffling to sit down; Will exhaled through clenched teeth and set up his laptop in silence, attaching the cables needed to hook it up to the projector and then found the remote that dimmed the lights in the room, bringing more darkness over the hall than usual, so that he didn’t have to see the faces staring at him. Will adjusted his glasses and found the powerpoint presentation on his discussion he’d pieced together last night; while he knew that he was expected to talk about how fucking _great_ Hannibal Lecter and anything else related was, he knew he’d be unable to keep his anger away or fight the urge to scream that Hannibal killed people and ate the parts that amused him most. 

He winced slightly as he straightened up and his shoulder ached; he’d not taken his full pain medication that morning, paranoid he wouldn’t stay lucid during his classes and he was simultaneously grateful and filled with regret. On the large screen behind him, a massive image protesters who’d been at the Democratic National Convention last year waving Gadsden flags and holding various signs that said ’ **T** axed **E** nough **A** lready’ and ‘LECTR SHOW US YOUR PAPERS’.

“We’ll be discussing the development of the political movement that formed in the early 2012 during elections, a fringe conservative group known as the Tea Party movement.” 

The room filled with the familiar sound of pens and pencils against lined binder paper and the clacking of laptop keys being put to use. Agent Brown smiled at him and Will turned his head away, pretending not to have seen it. 

“They formed as a response to the pre-emptive decision by the DNC that Lecter-Du Maurier would be the national forerunners in the 2012 Presidential elections…”

*****

Bedelia arrived early the same morning she’d confirmed Will Graham was to lecture at GWU lurking beside “Hannibal, this is Miss Ardelia Mapp. I picked her out especially for you.”

The new assistant was gorgeous and Bedelia was admittedly jealous that she cousin was the one to keep her and that she wouldn’t have access to her, but Kennedys were generous people and she was no exception. Miss Mapp stood in the hallway oblivious to their observation of her and Bedelia’s eyes traced over the little details she felt made the young woman special for the job being asked of her. Miss Mapp kept touching her Senegalese twists had been pulled back into a elegant bun, her light pink manicure visible from this distance and no doubt acrylic—Bedelia would have to have Alana talk with her about that. Artificial nails made Hannibal’s skin crawl. 

Hannibal gave her the polite politician’s smile she’d become so accustomed to. “You are too kind, Bedelia.” 

“I only wish for you to have the best.” 

He didn’t reply, instead walking out of the sitting room into the hallway; she followed after him, eager to see his reaction to Miss Mapp, who’d been selected from a large pool of extremely qualified candidates for the job of assistant. 

“Good morning, Miss Mapp. It is a pleasure to meet you.” 

He offered out his hand to the woman, whose expression became one of the same ridiculous optimism everyone during the campaign held when he came into their world. 

“Mr President, good morning. I’m honoured to be a member of your team.”

Honour, team—these were the words that found themselves so often in the lexicons of the people who came to work for them. The words were weak and meaningless in Bedelia’s ears, ones that sheep bleat. But this woman had exhibited so many of the qualities necessary to run with wolves that Bedelia could only hope it was a momentary fumble of being starstruck. 

“Good morning, Madame Vice President.” Miss Mapp’s shoulders relaxed slightly at her presence, understandably reassured by Bedelia’s familiar company. 

Abigail appeared from the direction of her room, all pearls and pink, the way Aunt Jackie had looked once upon a time. “Hello, Daddy. Good morning, Aunt Bee,” she greeted pleasantly.

Bedelia gave a polite nod to her niece (who gave a fuck? Hannibal’s impression of his new assistant was what was important in this moment), watching her cousin’s face for any sort of indication that he didn’t want what she’d brought for him. 

“Good morning, Abigail. This is Miss Ardelia Mapp, my new assistant,” Hannibal introduced.  

Abigail’s eyes widened in shock. “He-hello.” She offered out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Ever the professional, Miss Mapp smiled despite the young woman’s hesitation. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, First Lady.”

Bedelia watched her niece force a pleasant smile on her lips, though there was panic in her eyes as she turned to Hannibal. “Forgive me, but I thought Will was going to come back.”

Hannibal smiled to the young woman, and Bedelia bristled at the fact they even had to have this conversation. “No. Will has returned as an instructor at the university for the time being.”

“Oh.” Abigail’s smile became relaxed, friendlier as though she’d actually accepted someone else was standing at her father’s service. “Well, I hope you can stay for dinner at some point, Miss Mapp. We’d love to have you.”

Bedelia felt a cold chill on her spine at the wording and oblivious to what the First Lady was actually referring to, the new assistant nodded in a manner that betrayed her enthusiasm. 

“I would like that.” 

If Bedelia were a betting woman, she might have voted on ‘how long will Lecter’s new assistant last?’ on the Tattle-Crime website, placing her down in the lower figures, rather than the ‘long haul’ category. As they were escorted to the dining room by the Lecter’s Bedelia hoped she hadn’t made another mistake.

*****

After the second lecture finished, Will packed up his things so that he could be escorted back to his office by Agent Brown, who was milling around the desk as his students filled out. He wanted to eat lunch before a rushed meeting with the dean. He could sense someone standing across from him as he strapped his laptop into its case; he ignored her for a few minutes but she was persistent. When he looked up, the woman offered out her hand. 

“Hi, I’m Molly Foster. I’m your fill-in.”

He’d been told that a Professor Molly Foster had been the one to take over his classes upon his departure from GWU, but he’d not met her until now.

He shook her hand quickly, wondering briefly if she was resentful he’d put her out of full time work. “Nice to meet you, Ms Foster.”

She smiled. “You can call me Molly.” No resentment, then. “Uh, I know you’re probably busy considering this is your first day back, but it’s my lunch break and I was wondering if you wanted to sit down together? Maybe we could discuss what classes you want to take?” She glanced at the sling his arm was in. “I know you’re supposed to take breaks…”

Will nodded and together the three of them left the lecture hall to the office, which now that he corrected himself, also belonged to Foster, too. Once inside and sending a few curious students away for privacy, he sat down at his desk, gesturing her to take the free seat across from him. Her desk was at the other side of the room against the wall and the school president had already assured Will they’d move her somewhere else by the end of next week. 

He glanced down at his messenger bag. “I forgot my lunch.”

He’d not had to feed himself in months—of course he’d forgotten about that. Even now his mind wanted him to think Hannibal would waltz in the door with a plate of food and an apology for making him wait. He opened his briefcase, hoping for at least a packet of Saltines to nibble on when a sandwich in a plastic baggie was placed in front of him. 

Molly smiled. “You’re lucky I always bring extra.”

As she pulled a second sandwich out of the soft-sided cooler, he protested. “I couldn’t.”

“It’s not a big deal.” She unwrapped her own sandwich. “Unless you can’t eat gluten free bread.”

His stomach tightened in hunger and he finally conceded. “I think I can manage.”

Turkey and pepper jack cheese. All from a deli. Smashed slightly on one side. Nothing extravagant or expensive or from Hannibal’s kitchen. It was delicious.

He ate the sandwich in large bites, hungry. Hannibal had come over multiple times over the week with food; Agent Brown however had alerted him each time and Will had locked himself in his bedroom, refusing to come out until Brown gave him the all clear. All of the food Hannibal had left was vegetarian and no doubt meant to resemble comfort dishes, but Will had refused to touch any of it, having Agent Brown scrape the contents into the trash can as he watched from a safe distance. He was still avoid the food in his fridge and had finished off the crap Franklyn had given him, which had left him eating the Burger King meals Agent Brown had very generously brought over. 

“I, um, have to admit that I’m…a fan.” Molly was smiling at him and he swallowed. 

“Of me?”

“Yes.” She laughed softly, looking away as her cheeks turned pink. “I’ve been following your career. Reading your papers. Subscribed to your twitter.”

He paused from biting into the sandwich. “My twitter?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your twitter account.”

He thought about how the administration had embraced social media and couldn’t really say he was surprised that they’d included him in the matter. “Ah, the White House media corp must have made one for me.”

He thought that was stupid—who cared what the President’s assistant had to say?

Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh, I had no idea—here let me show you.”

As he ate the sandwich, she pulled out her phone and pulled up the app that led to Twitter, then passed it over to him. Will all but forgot about the woman as he slowly scrolled through phone, reading tweets he hadn’t known existed until then. 

[Smooth landing in Nirobe. What a beautiful country. Thank you for hosting us.]

[Remember to tune in for the President’s special address for our nation’s birthday.] 

[Today we wish the VPotUS a happy birthday.]

Most of them were generic, though a few were ones he had said directly almost word for word, which made him suspect that Hannibal had in fact relayed specific messages to be tweeted.

“Five hundred thousand followers—not too shabby.” She had a crooked smile. “Of course, most people started following you after you were…” she gestured to her shoulder in the same area he’d been shot.

“Naturally,” he grumbled.  

“Like I said, I’m a pretty big fan.” She accepted her phone back and Will was careful for their fingers not to touch. 

Will’s eyes darted nervously. Hannibal was a pretty big fan of his, after all, so it was less of a compliment and more of a red flag. Thankfully, Agent Brown stepped before he had to reply.

“Mr Graham? We should leave now before any of your other fans want to ambush you in the halls. Your meeting with the dean?”

Will stood and wiped his mouth off. “Right.” He nodded to Molly. “Thanks for the sandwich.”

She looked pretty when she smiled. “Anytime.”

*****

“Bella, I feel we should discuss your future replacement.”

Hannibal sat with his Press Secretary in his office, across from one another on the ivory damask couches. He had called her in during a break in both of their schedules to discuss the pressing matter of her current condition. 

Her exhale sounded similar to a laugh, as though she’d just confirmed something she’d long suspected. “I wondered if you knew.”

He nodded—he’d known about it for over a year. “I wanted to respect your privacy. But I can smell the chemotherapy now.”

She hummed softly and while her face didn’t change, he could see her body language indicate she was embarrassed. “I imagine it smells like death.”

“Only death smells of death.” He smiled and gestured to the tea service on the coffee table between them. “May I offer you a cup?”

“Please.”  

The White House had its own china pattern and while it wasn’t exactly his taste, it was also one of a kind and that was something he could appreciate. He poured them both cups of the hot tea, a fragrant blend that hinted of spices that complimented the changing seasons; a cube of sugar for the both of them and a hint of milk in hers, and he passed her the cup and saucer. She sipped the tea and he watched her savour it, pleased that she was enjoying it. She smiled at him and said lowly,

“There’s a man who helped on Barack’s campaign. A Mr Robert Gibbs. He was the communications director.”

Hannibal nodded, recalling the name vaguely. “And you believe he would be a satisfactory replacement?”

“Yes.” She tipped her head forward slightly. “He’s perhaps a little less diplomatic then I am, but he is loyal. And he likes Jack.” He remained silent, eyes focused on her and as with all silences, she sought to fill them. “It’s horrible, thinking I’m leaving so much work left unfinished. I’ve accepted my own death—I’m not upset by that. But the work…” Her voice was still quiet, forlorn, and bitter. “I feel as though I’m abandoning the post. Going home early.” 

“You know as well as I that you are not doing this intentionally.” He glanced down at her throat as she swallowed more of the tea. “Why haven’t you told Jack?”

“You know why.” Her finger tapped the rim of her tea cup. Her jaw clenched for a moment, but she was quick to push those emotions away. “He has enough on his plate as it is. It’s difficult enough that the two of us work together now—you know how he likes to run his employees into the ground. As evidenced by your Mr Graham.” His heartbeat increased minutely as he waited for her to reveal whether or not she was aware of how truly he was _his_ ‘Mr Graham’, but she gave no indication that she had been informed by Jack of the exact nature of their relationship. She continued. “There is no way my husband would allow me to continue to have my job. And I have so much left to do.” 

Hannibal sat with her in silence as they finished their tea; this matter was a gathering storm waiting to make landfall and he had no doubt that that when it arrived, it would show every weakness in Jack he’d ever wanted to see. He brought his tea to his lips to cover the smile he couldn’t hide any longer. 

*****

Bedelia stood in the doorway of Will’s office, appraising the room with vague distaste; she’d come looking for Hannibal when he’d been attempting to have a private moment in the sanctuary he’d created for Will. She was watching him, wanting a reaction and an explanation. 

“I miss him,” Hannibal finally voiced.

She ran a finger across the top of the file cabinet, looking for dust that wouldn’t exist. “You are obsessed with Will Graham.”

“I love him,” he said simply. 

Her eyes darted to meet his. “Obsessively.”

Hannibal glanced to the Charles Napier Hemy painting he’d brought to Will’s office to make it more appealing to the other man. “We are made for one another.

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you?

He believed it to the core of his being. “Yes.”

“Do you think he is in love with you? That he simply isn’t reacting to the attention someone is finally paying him?”

Hannibal found that to be a trite assumption. “Will is different.”

“Is he?” She peered at him curiously. “How is he better than Clarice?”

“I wish for those I love to partake in everything I enjoy. Clarice had no desire to be a parent.”

Again the look of distaste as though he didn’t know better, that she had a duty to correct the perceived errors. “I didn’t bring Clarice in to be a parent. I thought you might wish for something beautiful to play with.”

“Perhaps in another life I might have found the time to make her a playmate for my games. But it turned out she wasn’t strong enough to withstand the trials.” He smiled at the thought of how easily her neck had broken. 

Bedelia glanced around the office, a humoured smile beginning to show; no doubt she was interested in antagonise him. “And your little hostage is a better playmate?” 

“Will is not my hostage,” Hannibal informed her, bored. 

“The same way Abigail isn’t your hostage?”

Hannibal’s ego did not permit him to feel amused at any accusation he wasn’t a good father. “Abigail is my daughter.”

“Not by choice.”

“Yes, by choice.” He thought of a morning where his child had held a knife in her hand and drank the blood of the first man she had killed. “She chose me. And now we are family.”

“Does Mr Graham want to chose you or are you not providing him other options?”

Hannibal’s hand came to rest on the back of Will’s chair. “Why don’t you like Will, Bedelia? Are you jealous?” He gave sneer. “It wouldn’t have looked good to marry a cousin. What would the _family_ have thought?”

She snorted quietly, indulging in the chance to roll her eyes. “Hannibal, we would have been so poorly matched.” Her smile disappeared. “I am…worried what this flirtation with Mr Graham will lead to. Attention I’d rather wasn’t focused on you. You are playing to close to a ledge I’d not wanted you on in the first place.” Her attention turned to a flower vase on the file cabinet, something small, delicate, and empty, an object that was to be filled upon Will’s return. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to…” she pushed the vase slowly off the edge of the cabinet. “Fall.”

*****

Will happened to be walking by the front windows when he spotted a small motorcade pulling into driveway; he quickly dropped what he was doing and began to flee to his bedroom, but Agent Brown held up a hand as he listened to what was being said on his earpiece. 

“Mr Graham? It’s the not the President.” At Will’s wary expression he added, “Or the First Lady.”

Will didn’t like the possibilities of who that left. “The Vice President.” Brown nodded and Will added, “Damnit.”

“I have to let her in, but maybe you could fake—“ Brown started to suggest but Will cut him off.

“No, no. Better just deal with her and get her out,” he grumbled. 

“That’s very brave of you,” Brown commended and Will snorted. 

They waited in silence until the Vice President arrived on the porch and he held the door open for her.

“Mr Graham,” she greeted with her soft and emotionless tone.

As he stood aside to let her in, he asked snidely, “Did Hannibal send you here?”

She glanced over her shoulder to look at him with distain. “Do you think Hannibal capable of telling me what to do?”

“Why are you here?”

“I think you already know.”

She glanced at all of the agents in the room. “Out,” she commanded cooly and they exited through the front door, leaving him alone with the one Kennedy who repulsed him. 

She took a seat in his arm chair, brushing off the false leather before sitting neatly, staring up at him with dead eyes. 

“You want me to go back to him,” he said, not taking a seat.

“Not because I’m fond of you. Or your relationship with my cousin.” She glanced him over. “I’ll admit…I was expecting more. You’re so… _plain_.” She had a sneer on her lips, completely unimpressed with what she saw. “Just a silly little southern boy without a decent razor or a proper wardrobe. I know Hannibal likes the unusual, but you’re just so…country.” Her sneer became an aggressive smile. “Does he like that about you? That’s you’re rough around the edges? That you don’t belong to the same aesthetic as him?”

“Setting Hannibal’s standards?” His voice shook with anger. 

“I _am_ the standard for Hannibal, Mr Graham.”

He could taste bile in the back of his throat and he was unable to keep his face from twisting in disgust at the understanding of what she was truly saying. “You’re his _cousin_.”

She sneered. “I was young and didn’t exactly understand what kind of fire I was playing with.” She shrugged and turned the sneer into a smile. “You know what they say—be careful what you wish for.” Then she frowned. “I picked Clarice for this job and he decided on _you_.”

“You should have known better than to try and set Hannibal up with someone,” Will muttered, glaring at her.

“I will agree it was an oversight on my part.”

Will wanted to scream—Clarice wasn’t an oversight. Because of the Vice President’s desire to play matchmaker, someone had died.

“I understand your shoulder hurts, but from the way I’ve seen you do your job, I don’t think there would be much of a hindrance. Surely your knees aren’t giving you trouble as well?” She raised an eyebrow. 

Will’s face became hot at the insult and he nearly snapped that Hannibal had been the one on his knees most of the time, but bit his tongue. “I’ve quit.”

She gave him a look as though he was stupid. “You can’t quit.”

“I quit. I already have my old job at GWU back. Permanently.”

“I’ll have you fired,” she said calmly.

“There are plenty of other people who will hire me to work for them.”

“And I’ll have them fire you, too.”

“I’ll move.”

Her fingers tapped against the arm of her chair. “I’ll make sure you’re kept here. The Baltimore Hospital isn’t so far away that Hannibal can’t visit you regularly.”

He stared at her in dawning horror—every fiber of his being told him that she wasn’t bluffing. “You’d have me locked up in a mental institution?”

“Well, you have pulled a knife on the president twice. They don’t even execute you anymore for trying to make an assassination attempt.” Her lips quirked into an amused smile. “I bet if I pulled a few favours, they’d even allow you conjugal visits. Or perhaps limited supervised time off-site. Hannibal could rent the two of you a _room_ somewhere.”

“I don’t think you understand why I don’t want to be with him.”

“Mr Graham, I know everything about my cousin.” She sounded bored.

“Everything?”

“Everything.” She swallowed hard and for the first time he saw something close to fear. “ _Everything_.”

“How long have you…”

“Years,” she whispered. 

This was unbelievable and his right hand clenched into a fist. “And you put him in a position of _power_?”

“For the same reason you haven’t gone to the police.” She adjusted the diamond bracelet on her left wrist. “Hannibal isn’t ever going to stop. I have reached a conclusion that he is…dangerous. But he is family and there is nothing more important to my kind than family. And it would seem that I have garnered a special place in his life. A source of amusement.” She gave an elegant rise and fall of her shoulders. “And in return, I have a powerful ally. A man whom people follow blindly.”

“Lambs to the slaughter.”

“He wouldn’t call them lambs, Mr Graham.”

“No, he calls them pigs.”

Du Maurier smiled. 

Will shook his head. “I’m not going back. He’s dangerous.”

“To everyone else.” She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “You’re trying to convince yourself he’s a threat to you, aren’t you? Whatever you and he share isn’t anything I understand or pretend to.”

“You just want to placate him.”

“Placate him? No.”

Will studied her. “You’re trying to put distance between him and yourself.”

Her eyes widened minutely, a sign he’d caught her. “I love my cousin.” She paused. “I think it’s love. He is the answer to a long asked for prayer.” Her eyes lifted skyward, then 

“You will maintain your relationship with him. He seems to think you were made for one another.”

“How romantic,” Will sneered as he felt a phantom twinge along the scar on his palm.

“It’s not even a crime, you know. Something so taboo there aren’t even laws against it. No different,” she swallowed hard, though kept her smile forced tightly on her lips, “than children stealing candy to eat.”

“Candy?!” He couldn’t control his anger any longer. “He wasn’t feeding us fucking candy!”

“Control your voice.” Her voice was low and hinted at violence. 

“Hannibal has been chopping up—“

“Don’t—don’t say it.” She held up a hand. “What Hannibal does is _his_. We do not get to share it with others.”

“Don’t you want to scream it out loud?”

Again, there was a hint of emotion in her face and her voice was barely audible. “All the time.”

Will shook his head. He couldn’t return to that creature posing as a human. “I’m not—I can’t…”

“Hannibal can turn anything in his favour. Don’t ever forget that. It’s easier to just go along with him and accept what he wants for you.” She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “He’s loyal to you. And Hannibal’s loyalty runs deeper and further than the loyalty of a normal person. You’re already in love with him. Just like everyone else. It’s too late to leave. I love Hannibal—as my colleague, as my cousin. But he’s not my friend. I see him for who he is and I…” Her eyes glanced from him for a moment, but then returned to her soulless staring. “You’re very fortunate that you’re as smart as him. You’ll make a good playmate for his games.” Du Maurier stood from her chair and turned to him once more.“Goodnight, Mr Graham.”

*****

Ardelia nodded her head in polite recognition to Alana, who’d been asked to leave the room by the Vice President. Alana smiled back and took her leave as she was expected to, which left Ardelia alone with the second most powerful person in the United States. She stopped herself from fidgeting with her hands or hair as she was prone to do when she was nervous, wanting to look respectable to the woman who’d come to her four days ago to ask if she wanted this job. 

Once the door shut behind Alana, the Vice President stood from her desk. “You are privy to very important information, Ms Mapp.”

Ardelia nodded dutifully. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Mr Graham shall not be returning to the White House, despite my cousin’s optimism at the prospect.” The Vice President gave her a warm smile. “Your job is secure. And while your obligations lie with my cousin alone, I must ask you to do a favour for me.”

“Yes, ma’am?” She decided against pulling out her notebook to add the information—favours seemed personal and secret.  

“If Mr Graham initiates any contact with the president, you are to immediately contact me.”

Ardelia felt the first hints of concern, wondering if therewas sinister danger hidden somewhere. “And Secret Service?”

“No.” The Vice President’s fingers played with her pearls, nonchalant and Ardelia relaxed somewhat. “Inform me, then pass the information onto my cousin.” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Vice President removed something from the centre of her desk, a small gold lapel pin with an American Eagle clutching the olive branch and arrows, matching the eagle on the Seal of the President of the United States. “You have my absolute faith that you belong here.” 

Ardelia couldn’t help but beam as the woman came around the side of her desk and pinned it onto Ardelia’s lapel. The Vice President smoothed and straightened the front of her jacket and then met eyes with her once more. 

“There. You’re officially one of the team.” The Vice President took a step back, her warm smile returning.

Ardelia had never dreamed she’d be standing in the White House one day, an important member of one of the greatest presidencies the country had ever seen. “Thank you.”

*****///****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +For those of you who haven’t read the books or watched Silence of the Lambs, Ardelia Mapp is Clarice Starling’s best friend, fellow agent, and roommate in the series. Ardelia’s character is often overlooked. She was the only one who didn't give up hope for Clarice after she left with Lecter.
> 
> +Real world point of divergence: the Tea Party Movement gained national momentum in 2009, rather than 2012 like in the story. I think that with McCain/Chilton presidency, there wouldn't have been a need for the Tea Party movement to exist on the national scale. In the story, it's still a very young and new movement. 
> 
> +Robert Gibbs was the 28th White House Press Secretary during the first Obama Administration from 2009-2011. He was also President Obama’s communications director during the 2008 elections. If you’ve ever seen him in action, you’ll understand why having him as the White House Press Secretary for Hannibal would be delightfully ill matched. Look up “Robert Gibbs Cell Phone Fiasco” on YouTube and you’ll see why. 
> 
> +The painting in Will's office can be found here: http://lecter4president.tumblr.com/post/87207562969/thorsteinulf-charles-napier-hemy-seascape
> 
> +Important Abbreviations:  
> PotUS=President of the United States  
> FLotUS= First Lady of the United States  
> VPotUS=Vice President of the United States  
> DNC=Democratic National Committee 
> 
> +Let me know if you like this added information for the chapters! Have a lovely weekend and enjoy your He-ate-us2014!


	8. Chapter Eight

The song was unfortunately familiar, something from an insurance commercial or baby wipes possibly—watery lyrics to a breathy voice as the girl played the guitar, smiling and annoyingly boho. As Abigail sat in the East Room, in the front row with other invited guests, she felt herself drifting between memory palace and the performer that was on the dais. It was a showcasing of ‘bright new talent’ and this was the eighth person of the one and a half hours she’d been sitting here so far. First Ladies were expected to host these types of public events, pandering to the expected role of loving the softer arts and gentle domesticities the woman of the house should enjoy. Abigail hated this music—she imagined this was what strangling someone would sounds like, all warbling over notes. She maintained her smile as the song continued on about sunlight and stolen kisses, pedestrian things she had no use for. 

She did consider for a moment if this music was something Marissa might have enjoyed, picturing her mischievous smile and the way the sunlight fell on her lashes. She gave a content sigh as she imagined her hands around Marissa’s throat, crushing the cartilage around her larynx as she had her sing pathetic things about love and wishing. She would have pushed her thumbs down hard and Marissa would have smiled at her, knowing that this was her place in the universe. As the song ended, Abigail applauded brightly, offering enthusiasm as though she was thinking about the music and not the bruises she should have left around her friend’s throat. 

The musician began to talk and Abigail ignored her in lieu of covertly glancing down at her vibrating phone. Brian’s sister’s house number. She frowned; his name had been leaked a day earlier than expected by someone in the White House to Tattle-Politic, causing absolute chaos behind the very neat and quiet façade her father’s office maintained. While every President vowed not to have leaks in their administration, this was the first one they were experiencing since getting into office. She wanted to know who’d leaked the information and crucify them on the Front Lawn. Post their head on a stick as a warning. Eat their brain on national camera so that everyone would know exactly who they were fucking with. 

Mrs Crawford had been forced to confirm Brian’s responsibility during the daily press conference that morning and then ignore the questions being asked of her. Texting him back right away wasn’t an option and while she wished she could, there was nothing he could do but wait. As the musician began her third (and final) song of the set, a particularly miserable selection of notes and chords that made Abigail want to jump out of her chair and throttle the singer instead, she began to plot a diversion where she wouldn’t have to mingle with the performers afterwards for too long. 

It took about an hour before she could politely excuse herself back to the East Wing, insisting that her staff remain behind and enjoy the rest of the refreshments; Mrs Madchen at her side, she returned to her officeand paced for a few minutes in the form of careful fretting with the painting on the walls. Remembering the phone call, she called the number back, but it kept ringing over and over until she finally hung up; the phone was probably disconnected from the bombardment of calls they’d no doubt been receiving since the leak. Confident he’d call back later, she turned her attention to the televisions on the wall.

“I want to see what they’re saying.”

She turned up the volume of the television and resting her elbows on her knees, she leaned in to give what was being said her full attention. ‘Hardball’ was on at the moment and the host of the show, Chris Matthews, was in the middle of a diatribe about the whole fiasco as was to be expected; Brian’s service photo had been posted in the corner of the screen with the title ’SECRET SERVICE SCREW-UP” plastered beneath it. The screen shifted to the two members of the discussion panel: David Corn, the head of Mother Jones Magazine, and Joan Walsh, editor-at-large for Salon.com, both smiling at the ridiculousness of everything. 

Matthews, with a backdrop of the White House framing him, asked loudly, “What the heck happened that night? Why was a Secret Service Agent prompted to shoot at the President’s assistant?”

Corn nodded. “That’s a great question and thankfully the Lecter Administration has been more or less transparent—“

“But we still don’t have answers! This happened at the end of September and it’s the second week of October!” Matthews interrupted. 

Walsh made an attempt to defend the White House, holding up her hands, though still smiling. “Well, you know as well as I do that they’re not going to talk about the details—“

“Can we all just agree that the weirdest part of this story is that this happened at midnight in the Meyerhoff? And if we’re to believe what Tattle-Politic says, that they were there because they were investigating one of the Chesapeake Ripper’s murder cases?” Corn laughed.

“This story reads like a bad movie script. ‘President and Assistant playing detective, solving crime—’,” Walsh added in a dramatic, mocking tone.

“ ‘Lowering the national debt!’ ” Matthews finished.

Abigail buried her face in her hands as she listened to them laugh.

*****

Matthew could say with confidence that the first time he’d seen Will Graham in person it had been love at first sight. Yes, there had been the small infatuation from the pictures he’d seen and he stories he heard from other agents, and the occasional glimpse of him on the television, but it had been the night at the opera that had made things solid, real, and he’d found himself lost in the tempest that made up the other man. 

Matthew Brown, Secret Service Agent of the Uniformed Division, was absolutely smitten with his boss’ boyfriend. 

“What are you telling people about why you’re assigned to me?” Will asked him on their morning drive to work.

Matthew was driving him in his unmarked vehicle while Will was still in the process of recovery; he sat in the passenger seat, not liking the attention he received when he got out of the back seat. Matthew liked how humble he was. 

He didn’t take his eyes off the road, offering a small shrug. “The truth. That you’re a White House employee that’s a high profile target.”

“I’m not working for the White House anymore.” He could picture Will frowning as he said this. 

Matthew was a little surprised at the other man’s response. “President Lecter has you registered as a private consultant for the White House. You still have your office there.”

“That son of a bitch—“ Will snapped, turning his face away so that Matthew couldn’t see him. He was quiet for about a minute and a half before speaking again. “Sorry. I’m just so sick of him trying to control my life. Even now, he can’t let me out of his grasp.” 

Matthew said nothing, because it wasn’t his place. Not yet. One day, Will would ask for his opinions and his observations and he’d be more than listening ears, if that’s what Will wanted. But for now it was a waiting game, patience that Matthew didn’t think he had, but was willing to try for because what he’d get in return was…more than anything he could possibly hope for.

When Will Graham had been hired to the White House, Matthew had been the one to rubberstamp all of his security clearances. He’d wanted to know more about anyone the President needed that badly, and when the rumours about why exactly their bachelor Commander in Chief kept a man who was obviously not meant to be an assistant by his side were whispered by Price, Zeller, and Katz, Matthew had been curious to see the man in the flesh. But there were only rare instances where he saw him in passing around the White House: a glimpse of curly hair, a flash of glass lenses, a peek of a worn tweed jacket. 

And then it was finally confirmed and made official; there had been three separate debriefings for all uniformed agents the morning and afternoon after Agent Zeller had caught them in bed together. Matthew had tried not to feel bitter or upset, hoping that this was a window opening where a door had been shut. They were reminded very firmly about discretion, that loose lips sink ships, and that any hint that the President of the United States of America was in a homosexual relationship could prove fatal. Matthew kept an ear to the ground, looking for any agent that might be willing to break oath out of panic or prejudice. They’d gotten this lecture at the beginning of the election, but now it was a reality that the President could be outed. Any danger for the President could be danger for Will and he would never let that happen. 

He’d not gotten the assignment to the summer vacation in Hyannis Port.

Another classified briefing regarding the potential threats the President and the White House could face if the President was perceived as being gay when the entire entourage returned back to Washington DC. Another day spent hoping he’d get the chance to see the other man as he walked through the halls to relieve the rooftop duty for their lunch break. He’d not cared if Hannibal Lecter, if the President of the United States, if the most politically powerful man on earth had already staked his claim on Will—Matthew could wait.

Now Matthew watched him trudge through the day, talking at but not to the students who came to gawk at him. The way Professor Foster conversated with him, wasting his intellect on mundane Washington gossip. Matthew could see Will missed his dogs, that the emptiness of the house was overwhelming him. It had become smothering and deafening to a point that any lonely person would become lost. In the evenings—after Hannibal Lecter’s attempts at dinner had been ignored and then emptied into the trash—Will would sit at the kitchen table and drink heavily. Matthew didn’t technically have to stay with him, but he wanted to, just to make sure he was safe from himself. 

“Were you and the President having an affair before Agent Zeller caught you or was that really the first night you’d entered the relationship with him?” Matthew asked as he declined a drink of the whiskey Will had with him tonight. 

“Yep, put out on the first date.” He gave a bitter smile. “All it took was a little food and wine to get into Will Graham’s pants…”

Matthew wasn’t a great cook. “Must have been some good food.”

“That’s what I thought at the time.” Will’s eyes lowered down to Matthew’s torso and after taking another long drink from the bottle, nodded his head. “Can I see that?”

Matthew was confused and followed the other man’s eyes down to look at the fold his holster created. “My sidearm?”

“Yeah.”

“Here.” He made sure it was unloaded and handed it over.

Will took another drink, his free hand lifting the gun as though trying to understand the balance. “I wanted to be a cop when I was getting out of high school. But I got a scholarship to GWU—one of my high school teachers put in a few applications for me to different schools. They were the only ones to give me a full ride. I…just picked politics because I figured…” Will laughed. “I picked it because by then, those were the only classes I could get into. Thought about transferring out into another field, but then I met Alana and I wanted to stay.”

Matthew was aware of there being a history with the Vice President’s assistant. “Ms Bloom?”

“Yeah.” He gave a forlorn smile. “We…kissed once. She’s very kissable. But I wanted to be more for her, with her. She…didn’t want that. She said she wasn’t looking for a relationship.” He made a scoffing noise. “Course not. Not with fucking Will Graham.” Another drink of the whiskey. “Could have been a cop. Could have avoided all of this shit.” 

“Want me to teach you how to shoot?” Matthew offered.

Will’s eyes were wide with curiosity. “Would you?”

“Yeah. I can take you do to the gun range sometime.” Matthew could pretend it was a date. “You’ve got clearance for the Secret Service’s down in the basement.”

Will suddenly looked apprehensive. “White House?”

Matthew could understand how the other man wouldn’t want to go back there and quickly amended, “No, no. The Treasury Department.” 

“Yeah.” Will nodded. “Yeah. I’d like to know how to shoot.” He passed the gun back to Matthew, his fingers careful not to touch. His eyes stared past Matthew and as he brought the bottle back to this lips, murmured, “Yeah, I’d like to know how to shoot.”

***** 

Ardelia would consider her time at the White House so far fairly pleasant, albeit different than what she’d expected. The President—he was a very nice man!—was very rigid in what he wanted done by her and what he wanted to take care of himself. She’d worked for other politicians before him, and they’d always tossed off all of their responsibilities onto her, leaving her with a plate almost too full to manage. Lecter on the other hand, preferred maintaining the control of the things he was surrounded by, not really delegating anything of importance to her and while part of her thought maybe he just didn’t trust her entirely yet, she also began to wonder if Will Graham had done such a good job as assistant that she was always going to be a poor stand in for him. After all, she hadn’t inherited Graham’s office—it had been left with Graham’s nameplate still on the door and she’d been forced to share the room with the President’s administrative assistants, as apparently Graham was still an advisor to the President, which privately confused her as the Vice President made it sound as though Graham wasn’t really in contact with the Oval Office anymore. Though maybe he and the President talked shop when they met in the evening in Wolf Trap for dinner? She knew better than to ask.

Ardelia wished she could meet Will Graham, see what made him tick and what she could learn. Plus, the weird story about he and Lecter investigating the Chesapeake Ripper murders? She needed answers about the world she’d entered into. There was a poll on the Tattle-Politic that gravely questioned how long it would be until she fell under the Lecter curse and was either killed or seriously maimed to the point she couldn’t work as an assistant anymore; it had left her queasy that people were counting the hours to see if she would make it to the end of the day alive—she had no intention to leave the White House in a body bag. 

This afternoon the President was called into a conference with Chancellor Merkel and thusly she was sent out of the office, which meant she had to find lunch for herself; she’d been pleasantly surprised to find that she was allowed to accompany the President, First Lady, Vice President, and Chief of Staff to the private lunches in the dining room connected to his office, where she was served meals that looked as though they’d been prepared by a professional. Today though, she was down in the White House cafeteria, picking through the salad bar when she recognised two women belonging to the East Wing; they were talking to one another as they stood in the sandwich line and Ardelia quickly paid for her food (Lecter had put an end to free dining at the White House, which held a certain irony after his ‘none shall go hungry’ speeches) so she could talk with them. Ever confident in making friends, she approached them and introduced herself. 

“Hi, I’m Ardelia Mapp, the President’s new assistant.”

The blonde with a bowl of the soup of the day (white bean chili) offered out her hand. “Hi! I’m Georgia Madchen, Abigail’s assistant.”

The brunette with the sandwich and pasta salad balanced her tray in one hand and offered out her other. “And I’m Beth LeBeau, her secretary.” Both women bore sunny smiles and Beth nodded her head towards a free table. “Would you like to join us?”

Ardelia nodded, pleased to be accepted into the fold. “Sure.”

The cafeteria was fairly empty at this point in the day and as they ate, they made various small talk, (“Have you enjoyed your first week here?” “Excited for the upcoming trip to Israel?” “Where did you get those earrings? They’re so cute!”) until Ardelia felt it was an appropriate time to start digging for the information she really wanted. 

“So what can you tell me about Will Graham?” At Georgia and Beth’s surprised stares, she added a laugh, wanting to make it look as though she was just another curious resident of Washington. “I just, you know, want to know what kind of shoes I have to fill.”

Both women relaxed and Beth nodded.“Oh, he was really nice. Quiet, but like, nice.”

“Yeah, quiet. Sweet.” Georgia stirred her soup. “He didn’t warm up to everyone here. I don’t want you to hear from others that he wasn’t nice, because he was. He just kept to himself.”

“Oh.” She nodded her head. “I have heard that he’s a bit, umm…” Ardelia was careful how she worded the next part. “ _Difficult_ to work with, but I can’t imagine the President allowing anyone like that to work for him.”

“He had his quirks.”

Ardelia could tell there was something more. “What?”

Georgia leaned in. “Well, he was actually hired to be the President’s friend.”

Ardelia raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Two very brilliant minds together. They bonded over books and politics and…”

Beth shrugged, adding, “Um, boats?”

Both women laughed quietly over this and Ardelia smiled along with them, shaking more pepper into her salad. 

“Okay, not boats, but definitely books and politics.”

“And…oh.” Beth took a pause.

Ardelia tried not to seem too curious. “What is it?”

Beth seemed to be reconsidering. “Well…well, you probably read the Tattle-Politic article, right?”

Ardelia looked quickly between the two, hardly believing what she was hearing. “Oh, the Chesapeake Ripper thing? That’s…they really were working on solving those cases?”

Beth nodded quickly while Georgia quickly clarified, “Now, no one officially speaks about it, but it’s something of a secret that everyone above a certain pay grade knows about. Which of course means whomever leaked the information—”

“It means it’s someone who’s in the higher ups,” Beth butt in.

“Hmmm.” 

“Anyway, the President has the FBI files on the Chesapeake Ripper and they would spend hours looking them over, trying to find clues or whatever. A lot of free time on Air Force One, you know,” Georgia explained.

“Right.”

As Ardelia nodded, Beth added, “Abigail really liked him. Like, a lot. I think she…” Beth bit her bottom lip and muttered, “Might have had a crush on him.”

Georgia looked uncomfortable. “I mean, it’s not good to gossip, but they were really close. And I never saw her trying to date anyone.”

Ardelia nearly dropped her fork. “You think they were…?”

Georgia was quick to shake her head and whisper, “No! No way. Like I said, I think she had a crush on him. Just one of those harmless teenage things.”

Ardelia nodded and ate her salad, lost in thought about where all this new information fit as the two other women began to talk about the First Lady’s upcoming trip to China.

*****

Hannibal had been keeping his eyes skyward for a storm to happen and finally it arrived. In the middle discussing with Miss Mapp the plans for his upcoming trips abroad, he was interrupted by Jack storming into the office through the private corridor, his fists clenching at his side.

“Get out. I need to talk to the President alone.” He didn’t even wait for the woman to register what he’d said before he was shouting, “Now!”

“Jack,” Hannibal warned as the east door was opened and Price looked in. 

Miss Mapp didn’t wait for an apology, practically running out of the office and Hannibal nodded to his agent that everything was fine, allowing him privacy with his Chief of Staff.

Before Hannibal could offer the other man a seat, Jack snarled, “Did you know about Bella?”

Delight coursed through Hannibal like a spring flood caused by too much snow melt, swiftly washing away any anger he might harbour at the treatment of his assistant. “Yes.”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me my wife has cancer?”

“It wasn’t my place.” Hannibal stood from his desk and came around the side, hoping for confrontation. 

“Bullshit.” Jack was baring his teeth, angered and humiliated that he was the last to know, and he even had the gaul to point a finger at Hannibal accusingly. “Bullshit, Hannibal. Bella has cancer and you’ve both kept it from me.”

“It is not my place to tell you of something so important, Jack. I had to respect Bella’s personal wishes. She did not wish for me to discuss it with you,” Hannibal said with the serenity of a doctor that wasn’t about to disclose patient information.

“You talked about this with her?! How long did you know?”

“Since last year,” Hannibal said with a small nod. 

Some of Jack’s anger had dissipated somewhat at this point. “You smelt it?”

Excellent, now Hannibal would appear to be an unwitting partner in the matter. “Yes. But she only admitted it to me two days ago.” Wondering if Jack would try to strike him, he placed a consoling hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

But when Jack eyes briefly met his, Hannibal could see there was something more he wanted to say; Hannibal’s eyes narrowed a fraction, curious what it was. What could Jack be trying to hide from him?

*****

In their still shared office, Will and Molly spent their lunch time between lectures working out the course schedules; he was still too tired to take a full day of work and having her shoulder part of the burden—no pun intended—was more welcome than he’d expected. 

She flipped to the next page of her planner and ran a finger down the list of topics that had to be covered by the end of the month. “Uh, Lectercrats.”

Lectercrats. Will almost sneered at the title, having pushed it to the back of his mind until now; ‘Lectercrats’ were voters that had voted in the 2012 elections solely for supporting Hannibal. Many were first time voters—college age kids and seniors citizens who’d not been concerned by politics until now—and Republicans who’d been only interested in getting Chilton out of office, GOP loyalty be damned! Lectercrats put Hannibal in office, turning up on November 8th in droves.

“You can take that one,” he mumbled.

“You don’t want to?”

“Some people might consider me biased towards the person in question.” He tried not to think about how ‘biased’ he might be considered for talking about someone he’d been sleeping with since July. 

But Molly, ignorant of the situation, scoffed a laugh. “What do you wanna bet that everyone you’ll be talking to voted for him last year? No one’s going to care if you’re biased. He carried 44 states plus DC. That’s better than the Reagan sweep in his first election.”

“Carter held DC in 1980,” Will noted absently as he wrote down that on the following Friday she would be writing about Hannibal’s _fans_. 

Molly didn’t seem impressed with his attempts to stay neutral. “He had a landslide. No one will mind if you’re biased.”

“Are _you_ a Lectercrat?” he asked drily.

“Of course. What about you? I hope you voted for your best friend,” she teased.

“I didn’t.”

Her eyes went wide. “You voted for Chil—“

“No, I mean I didn’t vote,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s stupid to talk politics, especially when you teach politics.”

Will frowned and knotted his brow before attempting to make amends. “Want to get drinks later?”

She gestured her hand to the left. “Down at the—“

“Yeah. After work.” He was speaking a bit too fast and he was very carefully avoiding her eyes, but wouldn’t it be nice to have human contact that wasn’t contaminated by the White House? Even if she was under Hannibal’s spell?

She smiled, looking relaxed once more. “Sure.” 

He turned to Agent Brown, who was sitting in the corner by the door, looking over a magazine. “We’ll be going down to the 51st State Tavern in Foggy Bottom at five.”

Brown smiled. “No problem.”

Molly had jam on her fingers and stood from the desk. “I’m going to go wash my hands.”

He made an acknowledging noise and she left the room; against better judgement, he sought out his laptop and after connecting to the campus wifi, he brought up the White House website. It was a Wednesday, which meant the White House’s official photographer would be posting the week’s candid photographs. Sure enough, there was an entry available and Will clicked on it; he scrolled down to see a photo of Hannibal drinking tea from his thermos before a press conference in the Treaty Room, a photo of Abigail applauding for a performer in the East Room, a photo of Winston sprawled at Hannibal’s feet while Hannibal wrote at his desk…

“Mr Graham?” Agent Brown was holding out a kleenex to him. 

“Oh,” he hissed, realising his eyes had begun watering and sure enough, there was a knot in his throat. “Allergies,” he lied as he wiped at his eyes, fumbling to exit the White House website and shut the laptop. 

Agent Brown said nothing and by the time Molly had returned, Will was composed.

*****

Abigail was not handling the new assistant well. Twice she began to quietly weep as she helped in the kitchen, crying over the rice and then again over the banana leaves. 

“I thought you made it clear that you still love him?” she said tearfully as she helped him prepare the dinner that Miss Mapp would be joining them in.

He washed his hands and dried them. “I did, but Will is a shy boy and will not simply jump back into our arms simply because we hold them open. He wants us to earn him.” He pulled her away from the food and pet her head as he placed her in front of the onions that he’d been chopping. She was so fond of knifes—perhaps it would be soothing for her to cut things.

“But we love him. And we’ve told him,” she insisted.

“Actions speak louder than words, my flower.” He kissed her temple. 

Her hand found the knife just as Miss Mapp appeared in the kitchen; Hannibal and Abigail both turned to look at her and instantly the other woman took a step back. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I come at a bad—“

“No!” Abigail let out a laugh. “No, I was just cutting onions. I’m actually on my way out to rinse my eyes. Please come in.”

Miss Mapp smiled in relief and Abigail darted out of the kitchen.

Dinner went along without a single hitch and he kept both women entertained with stories of he and Bedelia’s (completely fictional) adventures sailing to Nantucket, fables they’d spun as teenagers to tell their families while they were out drinking too much champagne and discussing their hatred of the tourists while adrift at sea. Dessert was filled with Abigail and Miss Mapp laughing and exchanging memories of school sports they’d participated in, allowing Hannibal to relax and enjoy their happiness. 

After escorting his assistant to the elevator and giving her the bouquet of flowers Abigail had instructed the flower department to make for her, he helped Abigail with the dishes and then he sat with her while she ran clove oil over the blades of the swords at the head of the altar; his attention lingered on the cut rope bracelet he’d rescued from the fireplace at Wolf Trap and on the pen he’d brought from Will’s office all those months ago. 

Afterwards, the two went their separate paths for the evening, Abigail to the gym on the third floor and he to bed, where he read files Jack had left for him to review before morning. There was a quiet scratching outside the bedroom door that led out to the hall. He looked over and decided that tonight he’d answer the door.

Hannibal really had to commend the training Will had given to his dogs; Winston was exceptionally well behaved and even better, he was quiet. He’d had his weekly grooming and bath that morning and while Hannibal had never expected to be someone who had a dog trotting after him at his heels, but he found he didn’t mind Winston’s presence in the slightest. He supposed this was mostly to do with the fact that the dog reminded him of Will, but the quiet presence was also pleasant in its own right. The official White House photographer had already managed to capture a photo of Hannibal sitting at his desk while Winston lie at his feet. He hoped that Will would see the photo and become homesick for them. 

“Hello, Winston.” The dog took a few steps forward and looked in the room at the bed, ears perked up. “No, Will is not here,” Hannibal told him and the dog huffed, walking over to the bed anyway and rest his head on the mattress, looking balefully at Hannibal. Hannibal didn’t make a habit of ascribing human emotions to animals, but it was obvious what was wrong with the animal and he pet the dog’s head. “I miss him, too.”

While he believed that it wasn’t a dog’s place to sleep on the bed, there was no one who would ever know and he patted the edge of the bed, signaling for the animal to join him. Winston obediently slept on the end of the bed that night, a solid warmth at his feet.

*****///*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Lectercrats was based off the idea of “Christiecrats”, democrats that vote or support the Republican Governor of New Jersey Chris Christie. Lectercrats are different than Christiecrats, but you get the idea.
> 
> +GOP=Grand Old Party, the name the Republican National Party uses interchangeably with its own.
> 
> +the 51st State Tavern is a real bar near GWU Foggy Bottom
> 
> +David Slade is not the official White House photographer—he’s actually the director for Hannibal! 
> 
> NEXT UPDATE SCHEDULED FOR: June 27th


	9. Chapter Nine

Abigail sat beside her aunt in the back of Cadillac One, waiting for the Secret Service to give the all clear for their leave from the tour of Miami-Dade homeless shelter they’d spent the day visiting together. Today they had the luxury of their assistants being positioned in another vehicle, which meant they were alone together aside from their agents. She was wearing her default smile, gazing out the window as she built up the courage to voice the thoughts that had been on her mind all morning and as she considered the best way to approach the ask her aunt for assistance. Nieces deserved help from their favourite aunts, after all.

“Aunt Bee?” she finally asked, turning to the other woman.

Her aunt looked at her with a matching, empty smile. “Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking about going to university. Would you be willing to help me get into GWU?” She felt daring to be asking something so large and forbidden behind her father’s back, and wondered if all those miles away he could sense she was going against his wishes.

But the trouble would be worth it. Surely she’d be able to convince him.

Aunt Bee raised an eyebrow. “GWU? Because of Mr Graham?

There was no point in lying about it. “Yes.” 

Abigail could see her aunt thinking the matter over. “Are you trying to impress him?

“Yes. I want him to feel important.” 

“Why?”

“I love him. He’s ours.” After a few seconds, she added, “Daddy won’t let me.”

That was all the other woman needed to hear—a trade was to be made and Aunt Bee’s smile became warmer as she removed the bracelet from Abigail’s wrist; it was one Cousin Maria had given her for Easter a few years ago, slipping the polished sterling silver into her jacket pocket. 

“I’m sure I can pull a few strings, Abigail,” she promised and Abigail smiled, too.

*****

Of course, Will knew it was impossible to avoid Hannibal forever; Sunday evening found Will talking with Agent Brown as the man was preparing to leave for the evening and switch with the night duty agent. Will sometimes missed Beverly—she had been one of the perks of Hannibal’s constant security presence, but Agent Brown was fairly interesting in his own way. Whenever there a transmission through the Secret Service earpiece, Agent Brown eyes would life up and to the left, a subconscious reaction to the instinct to see whomever was talking to him. Will’s mood started to head south when Brown—whom normally had a very good poker face—glanced over to Will and before he even said the words, knew what Brown was about to say.

“Uh, the President is here to see you.”

“Can’t stop him, can I?” Will murmured, staring at the approaching headlights coming down the driveway.

Agent Brown looked concerned. “You still have time to get upstairs, Mr Graham…”

“No.” He gave a small smile to the other man. “But thanks.”

The agent nodded and took at step back, clasping his hands neatly. It was a moment before Hannibal and his cluster of agents arrived at the front porch; Will took a deep breath and opened the door. 

“What are you doing here.” His tone was flat and it wasn’t a question at all. 

Hannibal held a dish carefully encased with a glass cover; Will glanced down to see something elegantly presented amidst flowers and leaves—he didn’t bother taking a close look at what the food actually was. He was scared of what he might see.

Hannibal’s expression was soft. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“I’m not. Marie Calendar’s was on sale this week,” Will informed him.

Hannibal seemed to fight back a grimace, but wasn’t going to let the matter go. “May I come in, Will?” When Will didn’t answer him immediately, he asked a second time, “May I come in?”

Will stood aside, allowing Hannibal to enter; the food was carried into the kitchen and set down on the countertop. 

“I don’t want anything you’ve made,” Will snapped, throwing a dirty dish towel over the glass dome that covered the food, trying not to think about what kind of human remains were in his house at the moment. And speaking of the way the food had been presented, this was more than just an attempt to feed Will, this was Hannibal trying to resume their relationship the same way it had started. Will spat out the words filling his head. “If you want to fuck, then let’s go upstairs.”

Hannibal nodded his head as though he didn’t find it entirely crass that Will had said it in front of agents who were trying to maintain their cool facade. “If that is what you wish, Will.”

As they made their way up the stairs, Will could hear Hannibal removing his coat and when they reached the bedroom, he neatly folded it over the back of the chair. Will’s arm was freshly out of its sling, but his shoulder still ached and he hadn’t intended on any form of physical exertion any time soon until he was further healed, but it seemed like that plan had gone to shit. Hannibal attempted to place his hands on Will’s shoulders as he kissed his neck, but Will jerked out of his hold. 

It seemed Hannibal was going to be patient for Will, allow him to speak first so they could get this—as he saw it, _unnecessary_ —matter out of the way. So Will decided to give him just that. 

“I trusted you.”

Hannibal’s voice was calm and soothing. “You can still trust me.”

Will gave a humourless smile. “I meant, I thought you weren’t like every other politician out there.”

And that was the truth. Will had believed for the first time in his life that he’d found someone who was genuine, who had no hidden agenda or corruption, and then when he’d seen the first cracks of Hannibal and Abigail’s facade, it had been too late, he’d already been too far under their spell to see the danger—they weren’t lonely creatures that wanted to protect themselves and survive as he’d originally thought. 

They wanted to tear the world’s throat out.

Hannibal turned his nose up at Will’s assessment of him lacking any sense of uniqueness. “I’m not.”

Will shook his head. “No, you’re just like all of them. You manipulate, you use, and you don’t care. You’re average, Hannibal. An average man.”

Oh, Hannibal did not like hearing that. His eyes narrowed slightly and his nostrils flared for a moment before his mask came back into place. “I am not an average man, just as you are no average man, Will. You and I are just alike.”

“No, we aren’t. We—“ he let out a bitter laugh, “we are so far apart from ‘alike’.”

Hannibal didn’t seem convinced. “We are in love.”

“That’s some low hanging fruit, Mr President,” he sneered. “I want you gone. I don’t want you in my life. I can’t love you.”

Hannibal shifted slightly, inhaling and attempting to make a patient face. “While I would not advise it, perhaps it would be best for—“

“What, are you my psychologist now?” He could feel his blood pressure rising. “Hannibal, we are _nothing_ , anymore. You are not my ‘significant other’,” he added the air quotes around the term. “You are sure as fuck not my friend. The light from what we had—“ he gestured between them, “won’t reach us for a million years. That’s how far from ‘in love’ we are.”

Hannibal was quiet and didn’t seem to be aware that his right hand was clenching slightly as his jaw worked; _‘He’s faking it,’_ Will thought, even though his own mind told him that he’d finally managed to strike a nerve in the usually unflappable man. No, this hurt because he could feel Hannibal’s pain— _actual fucking pain over this_. 

Finally Hannibal spoke and when he did, there was a definite strain in his voice that made Will ache.

“I let you know me. See me. I gave you a rare gift. And you didn’t _want_ it.”

Will looked away; Hannibal was only showing emotion to exploit Will’s empathy. “How _dare_ you make this my fault. I wanted nothing more than for us to be family and you did this—you were the one who lied, Hannibal!” 

Hannibal frowned. “I let you see the truth.”

Will shook his head, denying the other man’s words. “You mocked me with it. All those times you watched me put food in my mouth, you were laughing.”

And then Hannibal’s emotions were gone and his mask of careful control had returned. “I never laughed at you, Will.”

“You wanted me to be a fool.”

“I wanted to connect.”

Will laughed, but it sounded empty. “You absolutely selfish fuck. You actually believe what you’re saying. You believe the shit coming out of your mouth.”

Hannibal’s jaw tensed again for a moment. “Language, Will.”

“Is that what happened to those other people? You punished them for their language? Because they didn’t say ‘bless you’ after you sneezed? A whole lifetime of victims that were made just because of your delicate sensibilities?”

“You are not my victim.”

“No, I’m your survivor.” 

“You wanted this,” Hannibal reminded as he held up his own hand to show thin line across his palm that had been created in August. The skin was still recovering and a shade deeper pink than the rest of his palm, the scar almost invisible from this distance. 

“Then take it back.” Will grabbed the grout knife he’d left on his dresser from a repair earlier in the week and shoved the handle into Hannibal’s hand, forcing him to hold it. “Cut it out. Save it for someone else.” He leaned in to hiss, “ _Eat_ it for all I care.”

Hannibal’s tone became condescending. “My sweet Will, they’ve allowed you to think that you’re one of them—“

“Just shut up! Shut up! I’ve had enough of this! I don’t want this!”

“What do you want, Will?” Hannibal’s posture relaxed. “I have already given you all I can—but surely there is something more?”

“Get on the bed, so we can get this over with.” Will removed a bottle of cheap lube from his nightstand drawer and flung it at Hannibal. “Get yourself ready.”

Hannibal exhibited no emotion at all as he lie naked on Will’s bed, using his fingers to stretch himself open, his breathing steady and calm; Will stood at the end of the bed, wearing only his undershirt, grasped at any memory or personality he could to get and maintain an erection, wanting his anger to fuel this so he could give the other man what he wanted and get him out of the house. If he had no choice but to play Hannibal’s game, then at the very least he could finish it as fast as he could. 

He climbed onto the bed, over Hannibal, still aggressively pulling at his now eager cock; Hannibal’s hand came up still slick, stroking Will a few times, his knees on either side of Will’s hips. 

“Ready?” Will asked curtly—he may not want to be here, but that didn’t mean he was interested in physically hurting the other man. 

“Yes, Will,” Hannibal replied, dutifully as if he was some wife offering up a favour Will had asked for.

Hannibal’s breath caught slightly and then he exhaled soft as Will pushed into him slowly, eyelids fluttering and head turning slightly to face him; Will didn’t want to see the other man’s face or be anywhere close to that foul mouth that swallowed humans away and whispered lies, but he couldn’t have him turn around either—that would be too obvious a victory for Hannibal. Will took a moment to ease fully into the other man, keeping himself from offering the usual comforting he did when he took his position with Hannibal.

“Is this what you want, Will?” Hannibal asked, causing Will to flinch. 

“Don’t talk,” he hissed between his gritted teeth.

As requested, Hannibal remained silent, though his lips parted in defiance; Will’s eyes defensively looked away to Hannibal’s hairline, starting to breathe heavy as the man beneath him shifted into a more comfortable position. Bracing himself on his elbows, he grit his teeth to ignore the slowly growing pain in his shoulder. He was putting too much pressure on it too fast and shifted his weight to his right side, his mouth against Hannibal’s temple, lips brushing against hairline and skin. He could kiss him like this or whisper something loving into his ear; but he couldn’t kiss him or give sweet promises because they didn’t have that kind of relationship and—oh god, Hannibal’s hands were smoothing along his back and he couldn’t stop shivering at how wonderful it felt to be touched.

 _‘Just get it over with,’_ he thought as he maintained the rhythm he’d established, closing his eyes and trying to imagine himself anywhere but here. That didn’t last long as Hannibal loved an audience to his performances and gave a small groan of pleasure to get his attention, and sure enough, Will opened his eyes to look at him again. Hannibal’s cheeks had started to flush, so apparently he wasn’t going to simply endure through this for the sake giving Will physical release; somewhere in his twisted mind he saw this as a return to their usual routine, a way of reconnecting with a method that they’d both enjoyed so much. Every fibre in his being wanted this to be normal and routine, where he could whisper that he loved Hannibal, but even the hint of the word made his stomach curdle and a shiver traced up his spine.

Hannibal’s hands traveled underneath Will’s shirt, first bunching it up at the waist, then pulling it up further and forgetting himself, Will paused long enough to pull the shirt off and then throw it over the side of the bed. Of course, when Will accidentally made eye contact, he could see the triumph in Hannibal’s eyes, that he’d been that distracting, that he was still in control. Hannibal’s hand came up to rest on the back of Will’s neck, not pulling, which Will supposed was consideration for his injury. The older man was panting and arching beneath Will, moaning softly, still trying to pull him closer. Will took all of his weight off his left arm, reaching down to lift Hannibal’s hips up higher; the movement of muscle still bothered him, but as expected, the other man was more than willing to assist the rest of the way. 

Hannibal was kissing him on the neck and shoulder, whispering hot and desperate over and over, ‘ _please_ ’ and ‘ _yes_ ’. Will couldn’t last or resist the sound of his voice _begging_ and he came hard, noting distantly the pain in his shoulder as he put weight upon it to provide himself extra leverage; he was gasping as the endorphins overwhelmed him and slumped on top of the other man, feeling the steady heart beat against his own chest. He was exhausted both mentally and physically and perhaps if this had happened under different circumstances, Will would have laughed and apologised to Hannibal for being such a terrible, selfish lay; Hannibal reached down between their bodies and in his haze, Will could feel him start to stroke himself to find relief. 

“No,” Will hissed sharply. Hannibal stopped and allowed Will to pull his hand away. “No, you don’t get that.” He pulled out abruptly, ignoring the “You got to bring me dinner, you got to make me feel like shit, now you can leave.”

“You didn’t enjoy—“

“Get out, President Lecter.” He grabbed Hannibal’s clothing and threw them at him, making it clear that he wouldn’t even allow the President the dignity of a shower before leaving.

Hannibal looked shocked and there was a definite undercurrent of fury, but he kept it hidden and instead said diplomatically, “Very well. If that would make you happy, Will.” 

Will didn’t respond and instead stormed off into the bathroom to find a washcloth to clean himself with before putting on his clothes. He glared at himself in the mirror for a few seconds, trying to fight back any tears. The last think he needed to do was fucking _cry_ about it. When he returned to the bedroom, Hannibal was finishing the buttons on his vest and gestured to the bed.

“Would you like me to change—“

“Just _go_.” Will couldn’t deny how exhausted he sounded at this point. 

Hannibal’s eyes bored into him, but he said nothing to protest, simply finished dressing and gathered his coat before opening the bedroom door. Will followed him down the stairs, eager to see the other man out of the house. The Secret Service agents convened in the living room at the sound of their footsteps on the staircase and Will felt his face burn as he quickly read all of their expressions. Apparently everyone had heard what they’d been doing in his bedroom, their eyes glancing away and everyone looking too casual. Hannibal seemed unaffected by this matter, straightening out his jacket sleeve as he said, 

“Please eat something. I’m worried about you.” 

“Goodnight,” Will snapped, holding the door open. 

Hannibal nodded his head. “Goodnight, Will.”

Soon he was left with only Agent Brown. Will looked away, Brown’s eyes too bright in that moment. “You can leave,” he murmured before heading to the kitchen to finish off the bottle of whiskey he’d bought that afternoon. He had no plans on going to bed sober. 

*****

As a rule, Kade didn’t fraternise with White House employees, especially not during an investigation, and most certainly not someone in the higher ups. But she’d reached a ridiculous amount of resistance and via the Vice President’s prompting, she’d arrived at Du Maurier’s office to discuss the way the agents refused to answer her questions in a straightforward matter and about how fucking rude and evasive Will Graham had been. The gorgeous woman had sat behind her desk and listened to her rant and curse about her frustrations. The Vice President had then offered to have a late dinner delivered to her office and completely drained of energy, Kade agreed. She was ushered into the Presidential dining room and found that while the conversation stayed on the topic of the investigation, the tone became less personal and Kade found herself liking the other woman’s company and demeanor. 

Which had led a glass of wine at Observatory One, the Vice President’s residence. Now she was being led outside to the white two-seater Mercedes parked in the driveway, feeling the Vice President’s hand pulling hers almost impatiently. It was close to midnight and she knew she had to be up early to drive to New York to talk to Zeller again, but she felt it couldn’t hurt to spend a little bit longer socialising with the other woman. 

“I hope you don’t mind that the top is down. I love driving with the stars above me,” the Vice President told her as she opened the driver side door. 

Kade walked around the side of the vehicle, feeling the other woman’s eyes on her as she waited for a response. 

Kade smiled as she got into the passenger seat. “It’s beautiful.”

The Vice President handed her a silk scarf and gestured to her head. “For your hair.”

Kade accepted the scarf and tied it on neatly. “Thank you.”

In the side mirror as she checked her hair, Kade noted her cheeks were slightly flushed from the cool evening air and perhaps from the glass of wine she’d consumed earlier. The Vice President looked like Grace Kelly with the lavender chiffon, unbelievably elegant. 

It took a moment for the impressive vehicle escort to coordinate enough to get them out of the driveway and then they were driving down the streets of Washington DC. Kade felt a slight anxiety that the Vice President was traveling unprotected in the open, one of the bratty whims that politicians were prone to asking for, but she felt the words to protest the matter caught in her throat, instead saying, 

“I used to love midnight drives when I was a teenager.” 

The Vice President positively beamed at her and shifted gears, the car immediately picking up speed down the mostly empty road. 

“This was a cotillion present from my parents the summer I turned sixteen. My favourite,” the Vice President called out over the wind rushing past them. 

“You’re fond of old cars?” she asked, turning in her seat to look at the other woman.

“Classic ones.” The car sped up and the Vice President had to speak even louder. “I’ll have to show you the rest of them.”

Kade glanced around them to make sure the uniformed agents were keeping close to them. “You have more?”

“In the garage in Maryland.” Du Maurier’s hand stroked the steering wheel. “But this one’s my favourite.” 

Kade smiled and wondered how soon she’d get a request to have the Vice President’s other vehicles transported to DC.

*****

To say Will was less than thrilled that he couldn’t escape the Lecters even at his place of work was an understatement. As he walked with his agent down the hall a few minutes late to his next class, he watched Agent Brown pause slightly and grimace. Brown exchanged a look with him as he listened to his earpiece and then said, “Mr Graham…”

He huffed in irritation. “I don’t want to know.”

Brown frowned but didn’t push the issue. Outside the door to his lecture hall were two Secret Service agents that he recognised and he gave them acknowledging nods as he walked past him. More agents had fanned out in the room and Will’s eyes drifted to the direction all of his students’ stares. 

Abigail gave an excited smile and a small wave, taking a seat close to the front. He could tell how thrilled she was to be here, excited to be his audience. _‘This is what she looks like when she’s watching Hannibal do something. Daddy’s little girl.’_ Georgia was notably absent, which was curious, but then perhaps she had wanted to play at being a normal student. Or maybe she didn’t want to give him the opportunity to socialise with anyone else. 

Will realised his eyes were lingering on her and he brought his attention back to the papers on his desk; he found the remote that controlled the lighting system of the lecture hall and quickly hit the dimmer button, which caused a students to grumble that they weren’t ready yet, but he didn’t care. 

“Today,” he announced loudly as he started up the powerpoint programme, “we’ll be discussing birtherism in the past two US presidential elections. A conspiracy theory that suggests the candidate is not a natural born citizen of the United States, it was started due to Barack Obama’s parentage and upbringing outside of the United States at a young age in the 2008 elections. It is believed to be one of the many factors that cost him the election to the late President McCain and former President Chilton. This theory was brought to the forefront again in 2012 with President Hannibal Lecter’s accent and upbringing outside of the United States at a young age.”

He couldn’t believe that of all days he was talking about the legitimacy of Hannibal Lecter, Abigail was there. He could feel her excitement that she’d be hearing his speak about the person she loved the most and turned to face the other side of the room. He took a breath and changed to the next slide which was simply a large copy of Hannibal’s birth certificate. 

“Hannibal Lecter the Eighth was born in the village of Sagaponack, New York on January 21st, 1968 to Edwardas and Olimpia Lecter.” He hoped that his face was neutral to the students, that they couldn’t see the immediate pull of pain he felt in sympathy to Hannibal’s loss of family. “His birth certificate is on record, though was subject to immediate scrutiny by ‘birthers’ due to the fact he was born at home and the certificate wasn’t filed until a few hours after his birth by the family doctor.” 

Abigail was dutifully writing down everything he said, Barney sitting quietly at her side. Will continued talking about both Lecter and Secretary Obama’s citizenships and how they shaped the dynamics of the voter pools he as a strategist had to wade through. The lecture ended right on time and he didn’t have to look up to know Abigail had happily left her seat to come down to the dais to stand by him. There were a few students lingering to watch and he finally was forced to glare at them until they left.

“Hi,” Abigail said pleasantly, her fingers touching the desktop as she walked around.

Will returned his attention back to his papers. “I didn’t realise you were a student.”

“Special guest. See? They gave me a visitor’s pass, but I’ll—“

“Well, I hope you had a nice time. If you’ll excuse me, I have another lecture to prepare for,” he said curtly. 

“Oh. Right.” She cleared her throat and Will could feel that she was trying to become bolder in her approach. “Um, when’s your lunch break? I could—“

“I have work to do during my break.” He was probably going to spend the time drinking from the bottle of liquor he’d snuck in yesterday.

She nodded, because this wasn’t an obstacle for her. “Well, I could bring you—“

“I packed lunch,” he said bluntly.

“Okay.” She was quiet and Will could feel her eyes watching him as he sorted papers. Even she couldn’t mistake the fact that he was ignoring her completely, which meant she was most likely going to leave. “All right. Well, I had a pleasure attending the lecture, Dad.”

Will’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond to her attempt at baiting a response from him. 

“Mr Graham,” Agent Matthews said politely before departing with Abigail. 

Will didn’t look up again until he was certain Abigail and her agents were gone, staring at the empty space for a moment before turning back to the cleanup at hand. 

His mind was filled with his thoughts competing for dominance, both sides of the complicated coin that made up his empathy. How dare she come to his job because he refused to see them—he wasn’t their property, their dog to come at their beck and call. She was as clever as the devil and twice as pretty, fluid and changeable to become whatever suited her needs best, to be whomever he wanted her to be; she was a predator who could camouflage and transform right in front of his eyes, morphing from the dignified First Lady of the United States, to the teenage daughter that he taught to fish, to the dinner guest that laughed with her father’s cannibalism puns. 

But he also forgot sometimes that she was just a child, lonely and lost without the guidance of an adult she trusted. Hannibal had so managed to stunt her ability to operate on her own to the point that she was forced to beg for what she needed—love was a reward in their household, not something offered without a cost, and knowing Hannibal, he was probably withholding it based on his displeasure of her attending University, even if it was only as a guest. She’d taken a risk coming here to see him. _‘I’m seeking your affection and attention the only way I know how—forcing you to look at me, to see me, to address me. I love you—this is the only way I know how to show it.’_

“Mr Graham?” Agent Brown’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. 

“Yes?”

“The dean is here,” he said, nodding his head to the door.

Will looked up and confirmed that the fidgety man was trying to get Will’s attention. “Oh, right.”

The man took their perceived eye contact as permission to approach him and immediately began to gush his appreciation. “Will, thanks again for getting the President to come make an appearance at the campus.”

So that’s how she had bought her entrance to the school—she and Hannibal had arranged for publicity and then given him the credit. Fuck, the last thing he wanted was to be around Hannibal at his place of work. The man was like a cancer, invading and infecting and spreading everywhere…

*****

“Abigail?”

Slightly startled, she glanced over at Barney, who sat beside her in the back of the armoured car on their ride back to the White House. “Yes?”

“May I ask you something?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t even think about what he might want to know. 

“Why is he mad at you?” Barney’s brow furrowed slightly and she realised he was talking about Will. “If he had a fight with your father, he shouldn’t be taking it out on you, too.”

Oh, if only he knew. “He doesn’t think he’s good enough to be with us.”

“Oh.” Barney nodded slowly. “So he’s shy?”

She nodded, too. “And scared. He doesn’t realise that he could have it all.”

Barney frowned. “I don’t think you or your father would ever judge someone based on their upbringing or economic status.”

“Oh god, no. Never. That would be so unfair.” Her heart hurt at that thought; while his lack of sophistication had been discussed at length by she and her father, it had always been analytical—never critical. “No, Will thinks he’s a freak. He doesn’t see that he’s so special—he’s just like us. And we want him with us.”

Barney gave her a knowing smile. “Sometimes people don’t understand how love works.”

She nodded again, quicker. “We love him so much and I think…I think it was too much. But that’s the only way we know how to love. Too much.”

“You shouldn’t tone it down. That would be lying to him.”

“We’ve only ever tried to be honest with him,” she promised.  

Abigail found her father in the private yard the First Family had access to; he was standing adjacent to Jack, who was staring at a paper target on the tree in the furthest corner of the yard. An apple crate of baseballs was at his feet and Jack looked lost in thought as her father selected a baseball to throw. 

The agents assigned to her father were positioned casually around the yard. Abigail watched Margot Verger with intense interest and after a few seconds the other woman made eye contact with her briefly; Abigail thought she was as pretty as her brother. Agent Katz and Price were standing together, chatting quietly, and both offered her quick smiles; she wondered if they missed Brian’s company—they still weren’t allowed to talk with him while the investigation was open. Winston was running after squirrels, tail wagging and ears lifted, his behaviour suggesting play more than hunting. 

Her father was expected to throw the opening pitch at the World Series as he’d (intentionally) missed the mandatory invitation to throw at the All-Star Game in July, and now had to make it up by participating in this ceremony; there had been various nasty jokes about if the prim, upperclass Lecter could throw across home plate and Tattle-Politic had not one, but two polls up regarding the matter. After the best-of-nine playoff, the winning team would visit the White House and present her father with a team jersey that bore his name on the back. 

At the beginning of the year, the Baltimore Ravens had proudly shown up with a team jersey after winning Super Bowl XLVII, forcing her father to smile and express his thanks as though he gave a fuck about sports franchises; it had made for a nice photo op, however—two of Baltimore’s favourites in the White House together. 

It was so strange and made her uncomfortable, so she kept her eyes averted and simply handed him baseballs as he practiced striking the target. 

“How was Will?” her father asked, focused on his task.

She knew that while he wasn’t pleased she had attended the class, as Aunt Bee had made the arrangements behind his back, at least she held some value for gathering information where he couldn’t. “He was fine. I think he misses us.”

Her father turned to her and gave her a very pointed look. “You think or you know?”

She quickly corrected herself. “I know that he misses us. He couldn’t even look at me. But he was so professional. I hope you can watch him teach one day.”

“I would enjoy that.” He threw another ball that hit the target.

“Keep your eye on the ball,” she said helpfully. 

“That is if you are trying to hit it with a bat, Abigail.” He pitched again.

“Oh,” she murmured.

Her father gave a sharp whistle and Winston left his pursuit of the squirrels to come to over and sit at his feet, looking up at him with absolute adoration and obedience. Abigail made sure to turn away so that he wouldn’t see her discomfort. He didn’t have to whistle for her to come, after all. 

*****///*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +The baseball scene was originally for the first story, but I couldn’t fit it in. Hannibal would have thrown the opening pitch for the July All-Star Game that most presidents do, but I figured Hannibal would weasel his way out of that. 
> 
> +Birtherism is a real thing. Google it if you want to know more.
> 
> +Bedelia’s beloved car, a 1959 Mercedes-Benz 220S convertible in classic white, as mentioned in National Anthem.
> 
> Chapter Ten is scheduled for July 4th.


	10. Chapter Ten

Dr Cordell Doemling sat off to the side of Mason’s bed, quiet and grim; Margot didn’t particularly like Cordell, but they were unwitting companions on this journey in Mason Verger’s world. Her eyes kept drifting to him as they politely sipped their morning tea; she hated her twin’s early morning breakfast sessions before work as they were nothing more than an opportunity to talk about nauseating topics. She wished he’d just stay on his internet forums to speak to others about various crimes against humanity.

“Margot?” Her brother’s voice sounded so alien compared to the one she’d grown up hearing.

“Yes, Mason?” she asked, setting her cup in its saucer.

“Tell me of the Lecters, won’t you? Does Abigail really look as young as her photos?”

“Yes.” 

“How wonderful.” 

Margot sighed and looked away; she hated when he got into one of his moods of needing to talk about how young someone looked, because it brought up too many memories of her own childhood with her brother.It was almost five thirty, which was when she was allowed to leave the property to return to Washington. She didn’t live with him any more, having a small apartment of her own in DC, but he controlled her life still and he made it mandatory that they have breakfast together every morning, just so he could keep an eye on one another. 

“Margot…Margoooot,” her brother called out to catch her attention again.

She didn’t let him see the shiver that ran up her spine. “Yes, Mason?”

“What do you think Abigail would do for a chocolate?” 

Even if he lacked lips, she could hear the smile in his words and her blood ran cold. Cordell looked over at Mason and then her, shock in his expression. 

“What do you have in mind, Mason?” she asked carefully.

“I want to know what she’d be willing to do to save her father.”

*****

Abigail’s birthday was approaching in a month and everyone was so excited because she was going to be turning eighteen. Mornings were spent in her office’s conference room and after she finished discussing the mundane matters, she knew Mrs Madchen would be finalising the plans for the big day. She had a wonderful staff that looked out for everything she did and she was grateful that they mostly ran themselves, only coming to her for final decisions on important things. After the Chief Floral Designer had been instructed how to decorate for the changing seasons (“Aunt Bee’s office will continue to use the white orchids. The rest of the White House will move into the autumn floral schedule.”), and the Executive Chef had been given the menu plan for the upcoming visit from the President of France (“A light menu—President Hollande is on special diet. Georgia has the list of food recommendations.”) she had the non-essentials leave the room.

Mrs Madchen could hardly wait to get the words out of her mouth. “How would you like to celebrate your birthday?”

“Charity work,” Abigail answered automatically. 

Her Chief of Staff smiled “Great. Where would you want to go? A school? Soup kitchen?”

She’d been tossing around ideas of visiting soldiers in the military hospital closest to the White House or reading to school children and then holding a press conference on illiteracy, but realisation hit her hard—as the daughter of the most powerful man in the world, she really could ask for whatever she wanted and what was the point of power if she couldn’t take advantage of it? 

“Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.”

Mrs Madchen’s eyes went wide and Georgia looked up from her iPad. Everyone in the room was staring at her. 

“What?” Mrs Madchen said almost breathlessly. 

When she needed to, Abigail could sell anyone on any idea. “I know that the White House is taking a strong stance on mental health issues this year because it’s the fiftieth anniversary of Great Uncle Jack’s Community Mental Health Act. We so often vilify the people who need the most help and—“

“Abigail, I don’t think—”

“No, that’s where I want to go. I’m certain we can get the necessary clearances. We can serve lunch or something.” Excited that she’d be getting what she wanted, she didn’t limit herself to what she could reasonably ask for—Aunt Bee always told her to ask for everything possible, after all. “And I’d like to see Abel Gideon. He has never had a visitor in his time there and I think he should have human contact. We can only exchange letters a few times a year and it would be a waste of an opportunity to say hello.”

Two of her deputy social secretaries and the Director of Policy and Projects had visibly paled, while Mrs Madchen tried to shut the idea down. “Abigail, I don’t think your father would go for that.”

“Let’s get him on the phone. Georgia,” she gestured to the phone, “I’m sure he’ll agree to it, Mrs Madchen.”

Her staff continued exchanging glances and trying to offer suggestions such as visiting an animal shelter or working at a food bank. 

Georgia had the call on speaker phone and when they were immediately connected to the Oval Office, her assistant spoke. “This is Georgia Madchen, calling on behalf of the First Lady.”

“This is Ardelia Mapp, answering on behalf of the President.”

“Ardelia, Abigail would like to speak to the President if he’s available.” Georgia’s eyes met hers tentatively.

“One moment,” Ardelia instructed and Abigail could imagine her father listening to the entire exchange. 

“Hello, Abigail.” Her father’s voice sounded warm and she smiled, leaning in to get just that much closer to the presence of the man she valued above all others. 

“Good morning, Daddy. We’re planning for my birthday next month and I wanted to schedule a visit to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. I thought I could raise awareness about mental health. I know you and Aunt Bee are planning on discussing Great Uncle Jack’s plan to see a country that cares for and shows humanity to those in our community that need the most help.”

“I think that’s very charitable of you, Abigail,” her father said.

“I was also considering saying hello to Un—Abel Gideon. I doubt he’s had many visitors over the years and I thought that if I’m already there, I might as well spend some time with him.” She couldn’t imagine him saying no to that request, but she’d already been very bad by not asking if she could visit Will, so getting permission was important. Besides, asking to see Abel—who’d been found insane after murdering three people—was a far cry from seeing Will—who had the potential to kill so many more.

But her father’s voice stayed warm. “How generous. I’m sure he’d enjoy that very much. He was always so fond of you.”

“So you think it would be a good idea?” She couldn’t deny that she was relieved he was agreeing to it. 

“I think it would be wonderful,” he said kindly and she could imagine how amusing he found the thought of her staff being horrified at her plans. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, my princess?”

“No, Daddy. Thank you for your input.” 

“Of course, Abigail. I will see you at lunch, then.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Georgia ended the call and Abigail gave everyone a sunny smile. “It’s settled then. This would be a good thing for me to do.”

“You have such a big heart, Abigail,” Georgia finally ventured, returning the enthusiasm.

Slowly the table agreed, warming up to the idea, though there was still wariness. None of them wanted to visit a mental hospital that held killers and criminals. They wanted to see her somewhere safe and nice, like a middle school cafeteria or at a soup kitchen. _‘Pussies,’_ she thought, using a word only Marissa would have said. She just wanted to see Abel, someone she could speak to freely and voice her frustrations, someone who would dote on her. But if she could look like the charitable extension of the Kennedys that the country wanted her to be, then so be it. 

Besides, what was fun without a little risk?

*****

Abigail knocked on the screen door leading up to Will’s house; her father had suggested that she ought to be the one to bring him dinner that night, which she thought was strange as her father did everything in his power to spend time with Will. But then, her father always had a purpose to everything he did and she didn’t intend on questioning whatever logic he used in 

Perhaps he thought playing to Will’s paternal emotions might work best.  

Will’s personal agent answered the door and spoke lowly. “First Lady, I don’t know if you want to be here right now.”

“Why?” she asked; he was blocking the door and he had no right to keep her from her family.

“Mr Graham isn’t feeling well. I can tell him—“

From the kitchen area she could hear Will call out, “Who’s at the door?”

“Will?” She pushed past the agent and walked towards Will, whom had come to lean in the kitchen doorway. “Are you drunk?”

“Who fucking cares?” He looked like shit and she kept a small distance from him as he continued talking. “You know, my dad was a drunk? It was only a matter of time before I became one, too.”

“You don’t have to be your dad.” She held up the warming bag. “I brought you dinner.”

“Throw that shit in the trash.”

She frowned, holding the handle of the bag tighter, worried he might try to snatch it away and take it to the trash. “You need to eat.”

“I don’t—I don’t need either of you—all that fucking—how can you eat that?”

As she’d suspected he grabbed the bag from her and marched it into the kitchen, turning it upside down to dump into the trashcan, but missed it entirely.

“Don’t—!” The containers spilt on the floor and she looked at him in despair. “Will!”

“Not ‘Dad’?” he sneered.

“I’ll clean it up,” she said quickly, a surge of adrenaline coursing through her. 

Years of fearing her father’s disappoint to any type of mess caused an anxiety reaction at the sight of disorder and it didn’t matter that Will probably wouldn’t withhold affection—she couldn’t risk it. Grabbing paper towels off the counter, she quickly began to clean up the squash and rice casserole she’d brought over. 

“You don’t even like fishing,” he accused. “I knew you didn’t but I wanted to change your mind.”

“I liked fishing with you,” she protested, but she wasn’t sure if that was the truth or why he’d brought it up. 

“Because you wanted to stalk me! You won’t leave me alone!” he shouted before leaving the kitchen.  

“Shit,” she hissed, abandoning the paper towel to follow after him. “Will! Wait! Get out of my way!” she snapped at Will’s agent, dodging around him to chase the drunken man up the stairs.

He wasn’t moving particularly fast, but she was terrified he might trip on one of the steps and hurt himself. Hands extended out to support him if he tilted backwards, she tried to think of the right thing to say to him to make him see how important he was. She’d spent over ten years hating anyone who’d tried to intrude in her life and now she had someone she wanted to keep. Will had fire, he had everything it took to run with wolves. There was no way in hell she was going to let that go.

When they entered his bedroom, she tried to make amends for aggravation the food has caused. “Will, I love—“

“Don’t! Don’t say that.” He jabbed a finger at her. “I am so sick of both of you shoving that down my throat.

Why the fuck was he being so selfish about all this?! “You’re not listening to us—that’s why we keep saying it!”

“You know what really fucked me up, though, Abigail?” His eyes were watering at this point. “For the first time in my life I was thinking about a future. I was thinking about things to come and what I wanted to see and hope to do and I’ve never been able to do that. Every single day of my life had been filled with the bitter desire to not wake up after I go to sleep because what was the point to being so alone? When all I have was a disturbed mind? And then you and your father waltz in here and suddenly I’m thinking about helping you apply for colleges and helping you move into your first apartment and family vacations and setting money aside for your—did you know I have a jar in my closet that I was putting my change into so that I could leave you something if I were to die right now? Oh, I know it’s not some fucking trust fund like you already have, but it’s more than my dad ever left me and I wanted to at least die knowing I had tried. I—“ he swayed, “I was researching how to include you on my life insurance policy—did you know I had one? It was going to all go to the local ASPCA to take care of my dogs if something happened to me and that’s where they’d end up. But I thought I could at least leave you a few thousand dollars to pay for your school books or your, your,” he leaned heavily against the door frame. “I never had anyone in my life before and I couldn’t believe that is was going to be you.”

He had pulled the large jar out of the closet and raised it up high.

“Will,” she whispered, holding her hands out to plead with him to stop. 

“Take it! Take it all! You’ve taken everything else from me!” He threw the large jar to the wall and she recoiled as it shattered, glass and coins flying everywhere.

He lurched forward and she held out a hand, trying to stop him. “You’re barefoot! Don’t! You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“What’s fucking new?” he snapped as he came forward, trying to pick up the coins scattered around. 

“Why are you doing this?” she cried, trying to herd him away from broken jar. 

Will yelped out he stepped on one of the pieces of glass and then stumbled onto another, falling back towards the bed. 

“Sit down, sit down,” she insisted, hurrying over to him. “Let me see your feet.”

As she knelt at his feet and pulled out one the shards, he asked, “You’re not going to lick the blood off, are you?

She made a face. “We’re not vampires, Will. I need to—” 

He shook his head, pushing her hands away. “Just—just go.”

“I don’t—I don’t want to leave you,” she protested. 

“Go! Just go!”

Abigail could feel deep in her gut that arguing was just going to make things worse and while she didn’t want to, she left; in the unmarked Secret Service vehicle, Abigail kept her face turned away from her evening agent, trying to fight back the urge to get upset. Her agent made small talk that she gave occasional nods to, but for the most part ignored him. When she reached the Residence, her father was sitting at his desk in the living room, working on a sketch. She sat down heavily on the couch, her emotions having finally caught up with her. Rather than greet her, her father came to sit beside her. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

“I think we really messed up. I think we really messed up,” she admitted, lacking the courage to face him; the last thing she wanted to do was say they’d made a mistake, but it might be the time to face up to the fact that they’d failed at something.

“Tell me what happened.”

“He was drunk and he started telling me all these things about how we made him feel and he was crying the whole time and…I think we broke him.”

Her father was quiet for a moment. “What was he saying?”

Abgail felt a knot in her throat. “Um, that he was saving money to put aside for me. Like a life insurance policy.” Her voice was a few octaves higher now, strained, and she brushed at the tears forming in her eyes. “He said that he’d never even considered what a future was like until he had us. That we’d offered him something only to take it away.” Her hand found his as guilt overwhelmed her. “And I just left him there. Crying.”

“I shall go talk to him, my princess.” He wiped away the tear that managed to escape and he gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t fret.”

*****

Hannibal recollected with fondness the day he’d told the CIA to deliver his personal file to Will; it was the morning after they’d consummated their relationship and while he didn’t like the thought of whoring out his information, it was for a greater cause. That night he’d found Will burning from the inside out, a steel frame surrounded by paper and he had wanted to strip all the unnecessary off the man he loved, anxious to have his equal standing beside him. Will had needed relief, to be rescued from his drift out at sea. And Hannibal had been ready. Of course he would never mix sleeping pills and sodium thiopental, which meant that what he’d given Will that night were nothing more than little zinc supplements. Will had accepted the placebos and it took only minutes before Will’s own exhaustion overtook him, allowing him to believe the supplements had made him ready for sleep. 

On the night Will had been in a vulnerable state emotionally and mentally. A prick of a needle, a push of a syringe, and Will’s mind was sent into a glowing, out of body, euphoric state. Hannibal spent a fair two hours carefully whispering and navigating his beloved through the maze of his mind, a beautiful, twisted restructuring that formed the foundation for what was the start of something beautiful he could give to the man he loved. 

Memory palaces were a gift he’d only ever shared with Mischa and Abigail; it was a personal world that he could access and use to control and to understand. And he’d want to give that to Will, allow him to harness all that his mind was capable of. He had suspected that Will had his own mental place of refuge but it wasn’t structured or clear, something that would never serve a purpose when times became difficult for him, which they most certainly would. 

Once in Wolf Trap, Agent Brown answered the door, looking at Hannibal with an air of caution that he found offensive; Will was his to care for—Agent Brown was his to die for. The two roles should not become confused. 

“Where is Will?” he asked sternly.

Brown tilted his head. “Upstairs.”

When Hannibal found him, Will’s breath reeked of alcohol and there was blood smeared all over the bedroom’s wooden floor. He was sitting in the furthest corner of the room knees drawn up to his chest and eyes red. There were coins across the floor as well as glass and Hannibal could hear it crunching under his shoes as he walked to him. Will didn’t make eye contact with him, his gaze lifting just enough to acknowledge Hannibal. 

“Wh—why are you—have you come to fix my feet?” he asked quietly.

“I am your doctor, Will. I will take care of you however is most needed.” He knelt beside Will, not needing to turn around to know Agent Brown was lurking in the doorway. “Would you retrieve the first aid kit?”

The cold cellar of Will’s house had been converted into a small headquarters for the Secret Service when he’d originally received his detail at the beginning of the year; it was mostly used as an outpost for storage and Will hadn’t complained about agents using it. There was a full triage centre available in the event of an emergency and a small arsenal in the event there was an attack on the President during his visits to the house. It took a moment for Agent Brown to return with the requested duffle bag of supplies and Hannibal took Will’s feet in his lap, cleaning the small wounds before removing a needle with attached suture. Stitches weren’t entirely necessary, but he liked the thought of Will feeling how much care he put into his physical repair, that Will would have to pull the threads out at a later date. 

“You are lucky these aren’t serious, Will,” he said gently as he finished the stitches. “You will certainly feel it in the morning, however.” He tried to help the other man off the floor. “Allow me to carry you to bed.”

Will pulled his hands away defiantly. “D-don’t—don’t touch me!”

“As you wish, Will.”

“Is Abigail still here?” Will asked. 

“No, she went home. She was crying and so I decided to check on the situation.” Hannibal kept his voice calm and analytical. “How often did your father make you cry, Will? Listening to him act and say things that made you feel so very alone. And now you have done the same to your daughter. Is that the kind of parent you wanted to become?”

Will glared up at him. “My dad never fed me people.”

Hannibal almost smirked. “No, he let you starve.”

“Fuck you.”

Hannibal hadn’t come to Wolf Trap to fight, however, and his desire to look after Will was strong. “You’re hungry. When did you last eat?”

“You’re not my dad.”

“No, I am not.” While he already knew the answer, he asked, “Did you not eat what Abigail brought for you?”

“No way. Not eating that shit.”

“Will, surely you understand that Abigail and I are respectful of your decision not to eat my cooking right now. Nothing we’ve brought over has been made with anything from our kitchen,” he chastised. 

“I don’t care.” 

“Allow me to heat one of your frozen dinners, Will.” 

He didn’t wait for Will to answer and left the bedroom, heading downstairs to the kitchen; Agent Brown was waiting at the bottom of the steps, looking curiously past Hannibal. 

“Is Mr Graham okay?” he asked as he followed Hannibal into the kitchen.

“He shall recover so long as he stays off his feet and foregoes the alcohol.”

He found the least offensive looking meal and waited in silence as it heated in the microwave, then plated it on one of the thrift store plates Will had in his cabinets. Bringing it upstairs with a paper napkin and cutlery, he approached Will once more. 

“Mashed potatoes, green beans, and something claiming to be a salisbury steak.” Will refused to look at the food presented to him and Hannibal continued to prompt him to take it. “I have done nothing to it, save heat and plate it, Will. You must eat.” He finally offered a disappointed sigh in an attempt to pressure the younger man into eating. “Will, I do not keep bits and pieces of meat to sprinkle over food that you may eat.”

“I can’t believe you,” Will said, trying to push the plate away. 

Hannibal had never dealt with a picky eater before and frowned. “Very well, Will. Let me find you something else.”

He brought the food back downstairs, dumping the food immediately in the trash and set the plate in the sink. A quick check through the kitchen revealed a single safe bet in the form of an unopened pouch of Ritz crackers. He brought them back upstairs with a pair of scissors. Will stared at him groggily as Hannibal knelt back in front of him. 

“See? Completely sealed.” He took the scissors and cut the top of the pouch open then held the bag out to Will.

Will resolutely ate two crackers and Hannibal gently stroked his head, praising him. “Very good.” Will started to cry again, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and Hannibal smiled, pulling him in close. “Very good, darling boy.”

“Why did you have to lie to me? Why couldn’t you just have been normal?”

“Oh, my sweet, beloved Will.”

“Your body is a graveyard,” Will moaned as he cried. 

“William,” Hannibal murmured affectionately. 

“I don’t want this!”

“We are in love.”

“You lied to me.”

“And now you know the truth,” Hannibal reminded. 

“You were laughing about it.”

“Never at your ignorance, Will.”

“I just wanted a family and you did this.” Will was sobbing at this point. “Why did you have to do this?!”

“Shhh, my love.” He stroked Will’s head. “We could have it all. You simply must be open to it.” He brushed a thumb across Will’s cheek. “Dry you tears.”

“You eat people.”

“Yes. And I do not feel remorse. And I will never feel remorse.” 

“I can’t…I can’t do that!”

“My love, my love,” Hannibal murmured. “Don’t put limits on yourself. It’s not healthy.”

“I can’t draw the line at cannibalism?” Will’s voice was astoundingly desperate sounding and Hannibal saved that away to think about later.

“We are eating the weak. We are culling the herd,” he assured. 

There was silence between them and Hannibal closed his eyes as he rest his head atop Will’s. What Will said next, however, came as a surprise.

“I see you as one of those pitiful things, sometimes born in hospitals,” he whispered. “They feed it, keep it warm, but they don’t put it on the machines. They let it die. But you don’t die. You look normal and nobody can tell what you are.” 

Hannibal wasn’t sure how to respond to that; with Will drunk, there was a high likelihood that Will wouldn’t remember anything Hannibal said, so he elected instead to show Will his affection. When Hannibal leaned in to kiss him, Will jerked his head away. “I—I don’t want your mouth on me.”

“Very well,” Hannibal agreed, standing up. “You need rest, Will.”

“It’s too late for you to drive home. I’m too drunk to drive you home,” Will protested as he allowed Hannibal to help him to his feet as he winced.

Hannibal didn’t remind him that as President of the United States, he didn’t need Will’s assistance, keeping quiet as he was manhandled to the bed. Will pushed him onto it and Hannibal managed to kick off his shoes before crawling back into a comfortable position. The sheets had been changed but the pillowcases had not and he smiled as he inhaled the day old scent of their sweat. He reveled in the smell of their sex, wishing he could bottle it and store away for later.

“I don’t want you behind me,” Will mumbled as he pulled his shirt over his head.  

“Whatever you wish, Will,” Hannibal said nonchalantly as he rolled onto his side, facing towards the room’s door. 

They were quiet and Hannibal felt Will settling on the mattress behind him. It took a moment before Will’s arm came around his torso; he wasn’t holding him close, but Hannibal didn’t mind—anything was better than the distance they had between them. 

Will’s hand travelled lower about seven minutes in to their rest; were he a lesser man, he would have sighed and rolled his eyes, but instead he allowed this to become an opportunity to hold still and allow Will a sense of control over the situation. He remained relaxed as Will moved closer, fingers tracing across Hannibal’s zipper; Will’s breath was hot on his neck and Hannibal could smell the fear, crackers, and liquor. 

He wasn’t aroused in the slightest by the situation, but as seemed to be their pattern, Will was attempting to use sexual release as a way to comfort him. How pedestrian. The younger man managed to fumble his way with Hannibal’s zipper and then felt around until he was exposed, flaccid in Will’s palm. In his mind, Hannibal composed a concerto for the piano as Will touched him, breathing steady; he was aware that he was growing hard in Will’s hand, and let out a content sigh as he closed his eyes and focused on his thoughts.

“Yeah?” Will asked, his voice almost distant. 

“Yes, William,” he murmured, reassuring him that he was doing a good job. 

He allowed his hand to close over Will’s, sharing the task of his pleasure with the man he loved. Will shifted closer to him and Hannibal relaxed further, hoping that Will was perceiving his body language as nonthreatening. And there was relief that there was silence, which spoke volumes on its own. The pace began to slow and Hannibal could sense that Will was falling asleep until finally the hold around his cock was loose; it was apparent that Will was no longer awake, finally at rest from a stressful day. Hannibal tucked himself back into his trousers and zipped the fly once more before crawling off the bed. Will was out cold and Hannibal covered him with one of the blankets at the bottom of the bed, turning off the bedside light. 

He would be back tomorrow night.

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fourth of July, everyone! 
> 
> Next chapter scheduled for July 11th.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Lat Saturday afternoon after work, Abigail rode out to Wolf Trap with Winston and Barney, unsure how she felt about visiting him; she was worried he would have a hangover, that he was embarrassed over how he’d conducted himself the night before, that he would think she didn’t love him after the incident. Her hand was buried in Winston’s fluffy, freshly washed fur, scratching at the scruff of his neck while she contemplated how upsetting the last one would be to him and if it would make bringing him back harder or easier. She could be strong and she could be patient, but this was becoming unbearable—she felt as though she was constantly grieving his loss in her life, fighting to get him back in a fruitless manner. Maybe locking him up to keep would be quicker.  

Will was raking the gravel in the driveway when her vehicle pulled up and Agent Brown was standing on the porch, watching them impassively. She climbed out of the car, grabbing the bags of groceries she’d brought for him, all prepackaged per her father’s orders.

“Hi,” she called out.

He eyed the bags in her hands and then turned his attention to the work he was doing. “I’m not hungry.”

She tried not to show that he was still able to hurt her and avoided his eyes. “Okay, but I brought someone who wants to see you.”

“Tell your—“ He stopped as Winston bounded out of the car over to him. “Winston!” He dropped the rake and knelt down to receive the affection of the faithful hound. “Hey, boy!”

“I’ve taught him how to do a few tricks,” she told him quickly, wanting him to understand that she had invested time in being a new dog owner.

Will’s smile faded and after an apprehensive glance at her, he turned his attention back completely to Winston, leading him off on a walk around the field. Didn’t he see that she could still be trusted after all that had happened between them? Everything she did to be part of his life was costing her greatly and she wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to keep paying—she was running out of favours to offer and if he didn’t accept her back soon, she wasn’t going to be able to see him any more. For instance, she had to very politely petition her father to bring Winston along with her; her father tried to reason with her that Winston should be used as incentive for Will to come back to the White House, but she’d held her ground, citing deprivation from the dog as cruel and unusual. 

Abigail watched them for a few seconds then decided to go inside and put the groceries away. Ignoring Will’s agent, she entered the house and walked into the kitchen, setting the plastic bags up on the counter. There were boxes of crackers and prepackaged hummus, bottles of lightly pasturised juices, bags of high quality granolas and trail mixes, breads from a local bakery, and supplies to make egg salad, which she was certain wasn’t his favourite but was vegetarian and easy to make for his lunches. These foods pained her father and weren’t terribly appealing to her, but sacrifices had to be made in order to get Will fed.  

As she neatly folded the plastic bags, having put the food in its proper places, she noted the dirty dishes in the sink (minimal) and wondered what he’d been eating and if he’d just been dumping all the food they brought over in the evenings, so she decided to take the opportunity to investigate. A few steps to the side and she was able to peek into the trashcan, where she saw dirty take out containers and fast food wrappers.

“Oh, fuck this,” she muttered, quickly rooting through the trash so she’d know what to report back to her father. 

Three bottles of Pedialyte, Subway wrappers that looks like they had marinara sauce and mustard on them, receipts to the nearby liquor store, something that looked like vomit coating paper towels—

“What are you doing?”

She startled and almost jumped into the counter, spinning around to see that Agent Brown had crept up behind her and was watching what she was doing.  

“I was going to take his trash out,” she said cooly, removing the bag. 

Brown watched her intently, though he didn’t follow her as she went through the kitchen door and tossed the bag in the beat up metal trashcan, buying time by placing a cinder block on top of the lid to keep any stray animals from scavenging. When she returned to the kitchen, Will had just come inside with Winston, who had dirt and dry grass in his fur. Glancing down at the dog who ran over to her side, she noticed he was missing something important. 

“Where’s Winston’s collar?” She glared at Agent Brown, whom was exchanging a glance with Will. “Go find it.”

“They’re not your personal servants, you know,” Will snapped as Brown left the kitchen and the house. 

She crossed her arms; she might not have seen how it came off, but she wasn’t stupid—Brown was weirdly close to Will. “He took it off. The least he can do is bring it back.”

Will didn’t deny that Brown had removed it, which caused the anger in her stomach to sour. Whatever this fucking agent’s agenda was, she didn’t like it. Was he trying to turn Will against them? 

“You don’t care about anyone, do you?” Will was glaring at her and she turned her attention back to him. 

“Don’t you _dare_ say that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—you care about your dad because if you don’t, he’s going to chew you up and spit you out,” he sneered. 

“I care about you,” she said honestly. 

He shook his head, his jaw clenched. “Stop. I am done with this game.”

“Well, this isn’t a game to me, so you’re _not_ done.” She could feel anger in her voice again and this time she wouldn’t hide it, too frustrated to censor herself. “And before you say it, no, people don’t tell me ‘no’. I get what I want and I want us to be a family again. Do you even understand what I’ve had to deal with to get to go to your classes?” Will’s eyes widened and she saw that she now had a modicum of power to make him listen. “Yeah, that’s right—Daddy didn’t send me there to spy on you. I had to do all this behind his back.”

He tried to use his empathy to evaluate the information. “You wanted to help him—“

“NO, WILL!” she shouted and he flinched. “I wanted to see you! I wanted to get to see you at your work, I wanted you to see that I was interested in you even if you weren’t helping him with the presidency! I fucking want my dad back!”

“He’s not going to let me if I don’t take him back.”

She almost laughed. “I don’t see what’s so wrong with that.”

“Abigail…” he trailed off, looking past her.

Agent Brown had returned, holding the leather collar. “I found it. Must have slipped off.”

“Imagine that,” she said snidely, taking the collar.

“Apologise to him,” Will commanded. She stared at him and he drew himself up taller, suddenly looking so very much like her father that she felt her breath catch in her throat. “Apologise to him Abigail. You will not take that tone in my house.”

“I’m sorry, Agent Brown.” She looked back to Will for approval and received a small nod

“I’ll just go wait in the living room.” Brown left once more. 

Will relaxed his posture and Abigail felt her stomach churn. “You tricked me,” she accused. How dare he use his empathy to make her think of her father in order to get his way!

Will regarded her with equal anger. “Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”

She kept her voice quiet, but made it clear in her tone that she wasn’t going to drop this. “What did you want us to do when we introduced ourselves? _‘Hi, we want you to be part of our family—when we’re not working on foreign policy, we’re eating the rude’_? Are you kidding?”

“Why the hell would either of you think that I’d want to be involved with serial killers?” He studied her face and then looked disappointed. “Oh god, you don’t get why that would be a deal breaker!”

She threw up her hands in frustration. “No one would ask to have a drunk either, but you don’t see me giving up. Or even asking you to change.”

He took a step forward, his eyes pleading as he took his hands in hers. She felt drawn closer and her heart ached as he asked softly. “What if I asked you to stop? If you truly loved me, you’d stop.”

She was quiet, feeling her heart pounding. She knew what she’d say next would hurt him. 

“Will, the two aren’t connected,” she whispered, an apology. 

He let go of her hands, looking disappointed and pulling away from her.

She took another step forward and asked, “What did I say wrong?” 

He shook his head, eyes on the sink rather than her. “Abigail, I don’t want the life you have,” he murmured.

“A happy one?”

“One that’s built at the expense of others.”

She couldn’t see what was upsetting him about that—they weren’t asking him to sell his soul. “We’re letting you into our life and you don’t have to do anything for it. We’re not asking to give up anything or assume the Chesapeake Ripper identity or whatever.”

“Abigail, he _does_ want that. He wants to see what I’m capable of doing.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, don’t you _want_ to know what you’re capable of?”

He made a face as though he’d tasted something rotten. “The disregard you have for others lives is disturbing.”

“I don’t—god, I wish I could just let you see what’s in my head. You’d understand then.” She put her hands on her hips. “And don’t say you know what’s in my head. If you did, you wouldn’t find all this unpalatable.”

“No pun intended, right?” he said snidely, then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you know how disgusting it was to hear your dad talk about eating Chilton’s tongue?”

“Look, Chilton’s a disgusting man, but—“ She blinked as realisation hit her. “Oh, the eating human flesh is what made you uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable is an understatement, Abigail.” He shook his head. “I’m not joining the fucking _Donner Party_ just because I enjoy the company.”

She took a step back, her skin crawling. “We are nothing like them! You make us sound like freaks!”

“What would you call a cannibal, Abigail? Do you think that putting it on a china plate and eating it with a five hundred dollar bottle of wine makes it different then what any other cannibal does?”

“Yes!” she blurted without thinking.

His voice was quiet again, comforting a scared stray. “Abigail, you have very severe Stockholm syndrome—“

“I do not! Don’t talk about him like he’s so sick monster that’s out of control—”

“Your dad has the most out of control god complex I’ve ever encountered—“

“It’s not out of control—“

“He kills and eats people who lack manners—“

“That’s what gods do!” she hissed.

“I’m not looking to be a god!”

“Liar!” She was triumphant, pointing her finger at him and smiling. “I knew you were lying! You decided to walk with Kennedys and you say that you don’t want what we have?”

He shook his head. “Everything you have came at a price.”

God, was he going on about that again? “Then let us pay your way across the river Styx.”

Both flinched at the return of Agent Brown. “Mr Graham?”

“Yes?” he said and Abigail hoped he hadn’t heard anything they’d said. 

“The President is here.”

Will ran his hands down his face and she picked up on the momentary tremble—whether from anger or fear she couldn’t tell. “I’m not dealing with both of you at the same time.”

“I didn’t ask him to come,” she swore. 

He tossed his hands up, ignoring her protest. “I’m not. Bye.”

“Will!” She took a step in front of him. “I’ll go. So you can be with him.”

“I don’t want to be with him, either.”

“He just wants to talk.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

She reached out for him. “Please. He misses—“

“Don’t _touch_ me,” he hissed and she drew back. 

Agent Brown took a step forward. “Mr Graham.”

“It’s all right—she’s leaving.”

She wanted to scream at the agent for daring to come between her and Will, but she held her tongue and aside from a sharp look, did nothing. Kneeling quickly, she hugged Winston before making her way to the front door. 

“Bye, Winston. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Will seemed bewildered. “You’re letting him stay?”

“I told Daddy it was cruel to keep you from him,” she said quietly over her shoulder. 

She greeted her father at the door, not able to meet his eyes she was so humiliated to have been pressured out of the house. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, looking displeased that she wasn’t going to remain.

“I’m going to go sit in the car while you spend time with him,” she told him, still avoiding eye contact. 

“Very well.”

*****

As Will watched Abigail leave and Hannibal enter the house, Winston hurried over to the other man, sniffing at his trouser legs, looking at him expectantly. 

“Yes, hello, Winston,” Hannibal greeted amicably.  

Will’s chest felt tight, not entirely happy that his dog was happy to see the person he hated the most in the world. “He’s excited we’re both here.”

“He’s become accustomed to sleeping at the foot of the bed,” Hannibal informed him as he scratched Winston behind his ears. 

This surprised Will. “You let him sleep on the bed?”

“He looks for you there.”

“He’s not sleeping over, Winston,” Will informed him. 

Winston of course didn’t understand, wagging his tail, looking expectantly from Will to Hannibal. 

Hannibal removed a tennis ball from his jacket pocket. “Would you like play fetch, Winston?” Winston gave an excited bark and Hannibal looked to Will, smiling. “Shall we go outside, Will?”

In the back field, Hannibal threw the tennis ball and they walked together slowly as Winston chased after it. 

“See all those baseball lessons paid off,” Will commented in reference to the upcoming pitch the President was expected to deliver. 

“I spent summers with my cousins and uncles who insisted I join them in family games. Despite what you and Jack assume about me, I am well aware of how to throw a ball.”

“Will your talents ever stop emerging?” Will said curtly.

“Perhaps I wish I was a better partner,” Hannibal said softly.

Will snorted. “You don’t.”

“No.” Hannibal smiled at him fondly, having been caught in his lie. “This is just a rough patch we are going through.”

“You astound me with the shit you let come out of your mouth,” Will replied. 

“You astound me with your stubbornness. But that is one of the many traits of yours that I adore.”

“Ninety percent of the thrill to you is the chase. You don’t want me to give in right away. In fact you’re excited that you get to hunt me down a second time and that this time I’m even harder to catch.”

“You make yourself sound like a gazelle, Will. I don’t think of you that way.”

“No, you only consider hunting humans a challenge.” 

Winston returned with the ball, dropping it at Hannibal’s feet expectantly and Hannibal threw it again. 

“Winston misses you,” Hannibal said as they watched the dog dash off. 

“Should we get back together for the sake of the kids, Hannibal?” Will asked mockingly. 

“He doesn’t understand why his pack isn’t intact.”

“Because you managed to convince me to get rid of them so you could make me feel isolated.” Will felt his throat tighten and he looked away. 

“We are his pack, Will.”

“Hunters,” Will murmured. 

“That’s all you’ve wanted, isn’t it? Family?”

“Not the way you package it.”

Hannibal turned his nose up at this. “I will not present you our family in the same greasy, generic way you accept your food, Will.”

“Comparing family to food? Is that a pun?”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not test my patience, Will. I will not have you joke about what is m—“

“You act as though family is the most important thing in your world, but all you want is an ego boost from people who you keep on a leash,” Will hissed.

“I see family as an extension of myself. Their achievements are mine. Their happiness is mine. And vice versa.” Hannibal looked to him. “I am trying to give—“

“I don’t want to be you. I don’t need your success as my own to be content.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were content before me.” 

Winston returned and dropped the ball in front of Hannibal, who held the tennis ball out to Will, impassive; Will took it, lobbing it far for Winston to run after.

“This isn’t a healthy relationship, Hannibal.”

“Why? Because you are suddenly faced with honesty?”

“Honesty?” Will echoed in disbelief, a humourless smile on his face.

“All of my secrets have been laid bare, Will. There is nothing left you do not already know.”

“You haven’t told me everything.”

Hannibal smiled, amused at being caught. “What do you wish to know, Will?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re not going to tell me the truth.” Will watched a Secret Service agent with a sniper rifle stationed at the far end of the field, surveying the forrest for any potential threats to the President; completely jaded to the constant presence of high powered weapons whenever Hannibal was around him, Will commented, “Abigail didn’t tell you that she was coming to GWU to watch me.”

“I became aware of it the day morning of the first class. Bedelia seemed to think I would become overwhelmed with the information. Is she enjoying your lectures, Will?” His eyebrow raised slightly, betraying his curiosity. 

 Will shrugged a shoulder. “She says she is.”

“You don’t agree?”

“She’s there to spy on me. She doesn’t give a fuck about political theory.” He could feel Hannibal’s eyes on him and he snapped, “What?”

“I think she might be,” Hannibal disagreed. 

“Why?”

“The past two nights over dinner she has discussed what you have talked about.”

“Probably because those lectures had to do with you.”

Hannibal shook his head slightly. “Abigail is interested in your work.”

“She’s not interested in the topic, though.” There was dread pooling in Will’s stomach. “So how many more lectures are you going to let her attend?”

“She has asked to attend until the end of the semester.”

Will looked at him with suspicion. “What does she have to give up in order for _that_ arrangement?”

“Nothing. She is merely required to tell me what she’s learned and she must take the semester final.”

“And then you’ll tell her, _‘No, Abigail. You don’t need university,’_ once the winter break is up and she wants to attend in the spring.”

“Oh, I’m sure your attitude towards her will kill any desire she has to continue attending,” Hannibal said cooly. 

Will threw the ball again, not giving Winston any time to rest. 

“I don’t want to be a consultant for the White House.”

“That is not negotiable.”

Will glared briefly at the other man. “I don’t want to be on your payroll, Hannibal. I’m not comfortable with it.”

“The university does not provide health insurance that will cover your encephalitis bills,” Hannibal argued. 

“I’m already signed into a silver plan under Lectercare—I’m good for now.”

“Will, I am aware how deeply you would be pushed into debt if you didn’t have this second paycheque—“

“I don’t need a fucking sugar daddy to cover my fucking pills, Hannibal!” Will snapped, the humiliation of needing to rely on someone for financial security more demeaning than anything else he’d had to deal with today. 

Hannibal gave him a small frown. “It’s not a handout, Will. And I’d appreciate some gratitude.”

“Screw you,” he spat, still defensive. Winston barked and whined, looking distressed at the tone they were taking with one another and Will felt guilty. “Winston, stop.” 

Hannibal picked up the ball the dog had dropped at their feet and threw it again; a rabbit startled out of the tall grass and Winston bounded after it, all thoughts of the tennis ball gone.

“Your hair is starting to get long,” Hannibal commented as they continued walking. 

Will had forgotten that all of his haircuts had been scheduled along with the presidents and for months now, he’d dropped the tedious responsibility of doing it himself. The last time he’d had a haircut was the afternoon Chilton had been scheduled for dinner and he turned his face away. 

“I had it cut last month.”

“And you would have had it trimmed again on Friday.”

“Well, I’m sorry you lost that bit of control over my life,” he said sarcastically. 

“It was not an objection, merely an observation.”

“So we’re making small talk now?” Will asked drily. 

“How are your feet, Will?”

Will glared at Hannibal, considering calling out the cheap jab, but decided against it. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

“You know you are always welcome to come to the White House to discuss anything that might be troubling you,” the older man offered. 

“I am troubled by the fact you and Abigail will not take no for an answer,” Will pointed out. 

“You will thank us later for being so persistent.”

“No. I won’t. I’m telling you to leave me alone and I mean it.”

Hannibal gave him a very patronising smile that made Will think of the Vice President. “I suppose this is where I tell you how jealous I am of the shit that comes out of _your_ mouth.” Hannibal exhaled through his nose to politely show his annoyance. “Will, if you were a lost cause, do you think I would be here?”

“I don’t belong to you.”

“Yes, you do. And I belong to you.”

He sighed, frustrated. “Why do you have to see things in terms of ownership?”

“You know why.”

Will could feel the answer well up inside him from the spring of Hannibal’s personality. “It gives you incentive to take care of it.”

“Will, I do love you.”

“I’m not saying it back.” 

“You don’t have to.” As they they were any normal couple, he suggested, “Why don’t you make dinner for the two of us tonight and we can—“

“You’re not staying. And you need to get Abigail home anyway.”

“Or the three of us could have dinner together.”

“Yeah, why don’t I order a pizza and we can sit around the kitchen table and pretend we’re a normal family?” he said sarcastically.

“Why not?” Hannibal challenged. 

Will could see a losing battle from a mile away and this was definitely one—he’d stupidly suggested the idea and now Hannibal would expect him to deliver, no matter how facetious the offer had been. 

“Fine, but you both have to leave once we’re done.”

Hannibal smiled and gave a sharp whistle to Winston, who immediately stopped his chase of the rabbit to return to their side. Back in the kitchen, Abigail was retrieved from the car via Beverly, and Hannibal tasked her with ordering the pizza from the local restaurant in town. 

“Hi, I’d like to place a delivery order. To Will Graham’s house, please.” He’d made enough calls in the past that the restaurant had his caller ID on file, so it wasn’t a surprise that a simple reference to his name would give all the information they needed to know. “One medium vegetarian pizza, one large cheese, and one medium pepperoni.” She smiled. “Yes, thank you.” 

As she placed the phone back in the holder, Hannibal began to move around the kitchen, seeking out the apron hanging on the oven’s door handle. 

“I can make a simple cake for dessert—“

“No cooking,” Will “I don’t want food you’ve touched in my house.”

“As you wish, Will.”

“And we can have Oreos for dessert.” Will nodded his head to one of the cabinets. “Abigail, get a plate for the Oreos.”

“Okay.”

This was nothing more than a perversion of the life Will had thought he would be joining into; what should have been a relaxed comfortable event was nothing more than going through the motions of two parents making dinner for their child, no emotion, no love. Will caught Hannibal making a face at the Oreos and Will grabbed one off the plate to eat, defiance. Abigail sat on the floor, picking bits of plant matter out of Winston’s fur, murmuring to him in Lithuanian. Hannibal set the table, carefully rewashing and drying the water glasses, folding paper napkins, and Will leant back on the kitchen counter, a gnawing in his stomach from all the anxiety he felt. He was counting over and over to ten, trying to relax, trying to think of anything other than being trapped in a house with two people he desperately wanted distance from. 

There was a brief argument over who was going to pay for the pizza which led to Winston barking at Will and Hannibal anxiously; Hannibal yielded and Will dug out the bills to give to Price who would meet the kid delivering the pizza at the gate. 

When the pizza was brought back to the house, Will felt his stress rising and through gritted teeth told the two house crashers to sit at the table, that he would plate the food. Hannibal and Abigail took their seats and waited in silence as he took out plates from the cabinet, placing two slices of pizza on each plate. He figured Hannibal would be nauseated by the sight of the greasy pepperoni—he certainly was—and he placed two slices vegetarian on the plate. Carrying the three plates to the table, he set them down, receiving two polite ‘Thank yous’ from both Lecters. 

“Why the fuck is there silverware on the table?” he snapped as he sat down and stared at his place setting.

Abigail bit her lips between her teeth, not raising her eyes from the plate. In the back of his mind he knew he was overreacting.

“Abigail and I eat pizza with a fork and knife, Will,” Hannibal informed him calmly.

Will didn’t say anything else, looking at the two slices of cheese pizza on his plate; they were exceptionally greasy and smelled like heaven. He kept his attention on the food, blocking out the sound of fork tines and knife blades on the cheap plates; pulling off the crust, he began to tear it in half, then into quarters, and then into bite sized chunks which he abandoned on the plate. He took a few small bites of the pizza, but largely ignored the food, dragging the torn pieces of crust through the orange grease.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Abigail asked after a long silence.

“It’s hard to have an appetite with either of you in the house,” he admitted, knowing full well that he was being rude.

“You’re looking skinny,” she finally blurted out, and Will ached at the concern in her voice. 

“Abigail,” Hannibal chastised. 

“Please go,” he requested tightly. “Both of you.” When neither made a move, he insisted louder. “Now!”

Abigail started to protest, but Hannibal gave her a look that silenced her; Will wondered how upset Hannibal would be with her later for her comment. Trailing after them as they walked to the front door, he resisted any physical contact from them and they finally left with promises to check up on him again soon. Will left the food on the kitchen table; knowing Agent Brown, Will anticipated that the man would clean up the kitchen after he’d barricaded himself in his bedroom. As Will watched them from his bedroom window, Winston whined, looking at Will questioningly. 

“It’s okay. It’s just you and me tonight.” Will pet the dog and as his fingers brushed across the leather collar that bore the address of ‘1600 Pennsylvania Ave’, he found he was no longer able to hold back his tears. “I missed you.” 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Pedialyte/Suero Oral is used as a safer alternative to other electrolyte drinks and also as a hangover cure.
> 
> +Next chapter July 18th, 2014


	12. Chapter Twelve

On Saturday, his day off, Matthew made arrangements for Mr Graham to come to the shooting range with him, showing him the basics of firing a gun and finding small excuses to touch the other man, usually to readjust his form.

“You’re doing great, Mr Graham,” he praised as they removed their ear protection and they brought the paper target in.

Mr Graham gave him a slight smile as he studied the holes in the paper. “It’s easier than I thought.”

Matthew smiled, pointing to the single shot that had managed to penetrate the centre of the target. “You’ve got a knack for it.”

“Recoil is killing my shoulder,” Will commented.

“Probably should call it a day then,” he admitted, even though he wanted to stay here in this cramped space with him and breath in the scent of gunshot residue.

As Mr Graham removed his safety glasses and removed the magazine clip from the gun, Matthew folded the target until the large sheet could be slipped into his back pocket and followed Mr Graham off the range.

*****

Ardelia sat to President Lecter’s right in the Oval Office’s seating area, reviewing the agenda for the coming week. She was happy to have a day off tomorrow on Sunday—this day had started too early and it wasn’t even nine in the morning yet. 

An hour ago, she’d relayed information that Will Graham was at the Treasury Department’s shooting range with his personal agent and the President had nodded; she wondered in hindsight if perhaps she should have informed the Vice President first, but there was little she could do except quickly text Du Maurier’s private line with a quick message, hoping it wouldn’t affect her job. Her hand kept playing with the little lapel pin she’d been given, a nervous tick.

Jack Crawford was with them, sitting in the couch across from her and leant back in his seat, trying to convince the President to make a quick video for the White House website. “It’s not too late to make the video, Hannibal.”

“I have already informed you that Columbus Day is on its way out in this country and therefore not worthy of wasting the bandwidth for the sixty seconds of something no one cares about. Columbus did slave trading of the indigenous people of the Americas, something this administration does not stand for.” The President’s lips twisted into a small and amused smile, unapologetic. “I am a Liberal Democrat, Jack. It is time for change.” 

Jack’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Christie is commenting on it.”

The President didn’t seem phased by the threat of an annoyed Governor. “Let him. It will be seen as Republican dramatics.” The President’s smile disappeared, replaced with a look of curiosity. “Is there something else you wish to say, Jack?”

“No.” Jack’s crossed leg began to move slightly as his foot ticked to an unheard, anxious rhythm. “How’s Will?”

The President returned his eyes to the files in his hand. “He is well.” 

Crawford’s eyes moved to hers for a moment and she quickly busied herself with her phone. Something was being unsaid between the two men and she had no intention of showing them she was curious. With previous politicians, they’d understood she was discreet and wouldn’t think anything of discussing clandestine matters while she sat quietly. But the presidency was different and she supposed that she still wasn’t trusted enough to have these secrets spoken in front of her yet. Especially if they concerned someone that the President was so close to. Eyes still on her Blackberry’s keyboard, she filed away the note that Will was causing anxiety for both men and it was no doubt an important part of why he’d left the White House. 

*****

Brian had been living in a self-imposed house arrest at his sister’s house in New York, unable to leave due to the media parked on the streets outside. She and her husband, Casey, had very generously allowed him the pullout couch in the living room, promising he could stay as long as he needed to. He tried to keep his mind occupied with home repairs and monitoring his eldest niece’s science fair project for her (an array of lima beans growing in various soil types) and the mundane world he was trapped in was draining him of all will to live. He was almost relieved when his brother-in-law answered the door that morning and Kade Purnell was standing there with her briefcase, the traveling office that contained his future. 

He carefully cleaned the girls’ toys out of the living room as he offered her a seat on the folded couch while he took an ottoman; his sister had brought out coffee for them and a plate of danishes from the market, setting them on the coffee table in the living room before hustling the his nieces out of the house to get them to Saturday classes at their private school. 

“Gonna head out. Unless you want me to stay…?” his brother-in-law offered, looking at Purnell apprehensively; Casey was a beat officer in the NYPD and didn’t trust Internal Affairs as far as he could throw them.

Brian quickly shook his head, trying not to appear confrontational to his superior. “It’s okay. I’ll see you this evening.”

His brother-in-law nodded, then gave a faint smile to Purnell. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you as well,” Purnell said amicably enough. She and Brian were quiet until the sound of the front door indicated they were alone. “Your sister’s family isn’t experiencing too much difficulty, I hope.”

“No, they’re good.” Brian was relieved that much was true. 

“Good. Their privacy and safety is valued.” Purnell opened her briefcase, ignoring the coffee and pastries.“Now, I need for you to tell me again what you heard the Lecters and Will Graham arguing about.”

“I already told you, I didn’t hear the words, just the emotions and tones.”

“Repeat it again, in your own words.”

Brian sighed, burying his face in his hands, wishing he could wake up from this nightmare, but there would be no reprise from his actions and instead of resisting—which was his instinct—he began to tell the story he’d told fifty-one times since the incident.

“At just past 20:00 on September 28th, I heard the sounds of an argument in the Residence kitchen. It sounded like Will Graham raising his voice, though I couldn’t discern the words being said. The door to the kitchen had been shut and I wasn’t able to see what was happening or who else was talking.” He watched Purnell take notes and she nodded, indicating for him to continue. “I could hear the First Lady crying and my first intuition was to check on her.”

“Describe the crying,” she asked, her tone clinical. 

“She was crying while she talked. She sounded distraught.”

She nodded again. “Okay, continue.”

“I opened the door to enter, but they weren’t talking anymore.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “They might have realised I was there, or maybe it was just a break in the argument—I don’t know.”

“Where was the First Lady?”

“She was sitting on the floor by the kitchen counters.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall every detail. “She was upset and crying—I’m guessing she was overwhelmed. That’s what my instincts told me.”

“Where was Graham?”

“He was standing by the entrance to the dining room.”

“You stated that he had one of the kitchen knives in his hand.”

Brian paused, not wanting to say ‘ _yes_ ’, because this particular part of the story was what was causing so much trouble. But if he said ‘ _no_ ’,then it would be even worse because it would mean he’d accused the President’s boyfriend of having wielded a weapon. 

“Yes, he had a kitchen knife in his hand,” he agreed, because it was better to just tell the truth.

“What was he doing with the knife?”

“He had it in his right hand, pointed in the direction of the President and the First Lady. Uh, it wasn’t being jabbed at them—I don’t think that he realised he had it in his hand.”

“Was he threatening them?”

He shook his head. “No. He was just angry and he’d probably be pointing a spatula at them if he’d been holding that instead.”

She wrote more in her notes. “Would you classify Mr Graham’s usage of the knife as threatening?”

“As an agent, anyone holding a knife around the President and First Lady feels like a threat. Looking back at that night, in hindsight I can see that Graham was not threatening either of them with the knife.”

“So you would state that Mr Graham was not a threat to the President or the First Lady in that moment,” she reiterated. 

“No, he wasn’t.”

“What did the First Lady say to you?”

“She told me to go.”

“What else?”

He thought, but shook his head. “Nothing else.”

“How was she responding to you being in the room?”

“Why are you so focused on Abigail?” he asked, suspicious.  

Purnell raised an eyebrow. “Should I be focused on someone else?”

“Whatever they were arguing about it between Graham and the President—she just got dragged into it.”

Purnell’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How do you know that?”

Brian rolled his eyes. “Because Graham loves Abbs. He couldn’t argue with her if he tried. She must be taking her dad’s side and Will can’t convince her to change her mind.” 

“Which is why you thought Mr Graham posed a threat to the President. You have categorised their dispute as spousal-domestic.”

“Yes.” Brian squirmed in his seat. “The President told me to leave, that my presence was only instigating Graham further.”

“What happened next?” 

“I left.”

“Even though you saw that someone was holding a knife to the President and First Lady?” Purnell challenged. 

“I—“ How could he explain the way it felt to take an order from Hannibal Lecter? Like it was a compulsion against all rational that drove him to do what he was told, to not question things that looking back were very bad decisions? “I didn’t want to worsen the situation,” he finally settled on.

She wrote something on her ever filling notepad. “Would you say your presence was upsetting Graham further?”

“Yes.”

“Because it was you or because he saw someone witnessing their domestic dispute?”

He thought for a moment. “Because he had someone watching. He doesn’t like anyone to see him in a weakened state.”

“What has the First Lady told you about the argument?”

“She refuses to tell me what it was about.” He could see she didn’t believe him and he insisted, “I’m telling the truth!”

“You’ve been in contact with her almost daily. We’ve been monitoring your calls.” She gave a tight smile. “Not listening, of course.”

He grit his jaw. “What about it?”

“What has she been telling you?”

“Those conversations are confidential,” he insisted.

Purnell looked like a predator. “Not during my investigation.”

“Abigail has been making sure I’m doing okay. We’re not discussing the investigation.” He could feel himself wearing thin. 

“And how do she seem?”

“She’s worried I’m going to lose my job. She’s worried I’m going to be arrested for attempted homicide or negligence or some other pseudo attempt on Graham’s life.”

“Should she have a reason to worry?”

“No, damn it!” he snapped. “She’s just—Abbs is just a kid and she’s confused and worried. She’s got a big heart and cares so much about other people. And…” He rubbed his brow. “I know Abigail. And I’d bet my badge that if we were to check with her right now, she’s upset over this.”

*****

“Confidential meeting. No interruptions,” Abigail said briskly as she escorted Sutcliffe into her office’s conference room, not allowing Georgia to follow her in.

Georgia frowned and looked past Abigail’s shoulder into the conference room. “I don’t have anythi—“

“It’s off the books. West Wing-East Wing matters.” She shut and locked the door behind her without another word.

It had taken two days to coordinate this and the more time she spent anticipating it, the more obvious it became that she didn’t particularly care for the former doctor. But he was a potential weak link in their empire and if the herd needed to be culled, it was important to know who it was that would put them in jeopardy. 

She was putting her money on Sutcliffe. 

Her father seemed certain on Margot.

 _‘This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to schedule in when I’m getting laid,’_ she thought to herself as she unzipped the hidden zipper on the side of her trousers, ignoring the conference table which the President’s Lieutenant Chief of Staff stood beside. She pointed to the adjoining washroom and stalked over there; there was little time to waste before she had to return to work and before Mrs Madchen returned from the pointless task she’d sent her on.

Her father had once told her that she brought out the worst in people—she agreed, but she thought that the word he should have used was ‘weakness’. People inherently trusted her and she couldn’t explain why, because when she looked into the dark void of her mind, she didn’t see anything that made her feel safe. But if it was something she could use, then she was more than happy to exploit the flaws in others, use them to her advantage. It was how she knew to survive and if people were burned up or destroyed in her wake, so be it.  

“I have twenty minutes,” she said cooly as she pulled her tweed trousers down, fishing a wrapped condom out of her pocket to hand over to him.

He took the small packet and looked nervously out the washroom’s open door to the conference room’s still locked entrance. “Your agent was really staring—“

“Of course he was. That’s his job.” She didn’t have time for this—she just wanted it over and done so she could pickpocket the personal cellphone he carried around. 

Sutcliffe was slow in unbuckling his belt and removing his pants. “I just don’t want him to tell your da—“

“He’s not going to. Agent Matthews is very discreet.” She tried not to look too annoyed, trying to convince him that Barney wasn’t going to add this in code to his daily report. 

“Yeah, but you’re underage and the President’s kid—“

Oh, _now_ he had a conscious? “Are you getting cold feet?”

“Look, I don’t want to get in trouble—“

“You’re not. My dad’s too busy right now worrying about Syria and the upcoming Olympic security—who I’m sleeping with is _not_ exactly on his list of priorities.”

That much was true. Impatient with how long he was taking, she began to jerk him off so that she could have him put a condom on. 

Sutcliffe continued to gripe. “No, he’s too busy trying to get Graham back.” He let out a sigh, tilting his head back as he let her work. “What is his deal with Graham? Can’t he find someone else to be friends with? I think your dad is just going through a midlife crisis. He should just get a sports ca—“

Before he could understand what was happening, she grabbed his testicles hard; Sutcliffe was gasping for air, hands clutching her wrists but not daring pull her off.

“Don’t you ever fucking talk about Will like that. Do you understand me?” she hissed. “Will is very important to me and I’m not going to listen to anyone talk badly about him. I will tear your fucking testicles off and stuff them down your throat so you choke on them along with your words.” In the back of her mind, she recalled that anytime Governor Budge would say something off-colour he’d quickly make it clear he was joking, so she decided to try that, too. “Just _kidding_.”

She let him go and he stumbled backwards, hitting the door frame as he clutched at himself. “Jesus, Abigail. You can really hurt someone doing that.” His face was twisted in pain “Hold on. God.”

“Do you need ice or something?” she asked curiously.

“I just need a moment.” He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “Fuck.”

She used all of her resolve not to laugh at his discomfort. “I’m sorry,” she purred. “Let’s get back to our meeting…”

*****

Kade tried not to laugh at the very sour reaction of Will Graham standing on the back porch of his house in Wolf Trap, looking at the Nighthawk that had landed in field behind his house; she carried her briefcase and carefully avoided dried dog shit as she approached him. 

“Mr Graham, good morning. I’m afraid I have more questions for you,” she called out, speaking over the sound of the large chopper blades that were slowing. 

“Of _course_ you do.” He stood aside to let her in the back kitchen door. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.” She looked over the agent standing by the kitchen sink as she set her briefcase down on the cluttered table. “Agent Brown, where is your headquarter post?”

“The living room—“

“Go there.” As the agent left, she glanced back to Graham, who was pouring her coffee into an orange Fiestaware mug. “Two sugars, one cream.”

“So what can I tell you that you don’t already know?” He grabbed a spoon out of the dish-rack and wiped it off on the hem of his shirt, bringing it and the coffee over to her. As she accepted the spoon and mug, he went to retrieve a bowl of sugar and a carton of skim milk. “You wouldn’t show up in my backyard without something good.”

To be fair, she’d really only taken the White House Nighthawk to cut down on commute time from Agent Zeller’s current location to Wolf Trap, but if he took it as a statement of dramatics, it would only help her plan of attack this morning. 

“I had a very interesting conversation with the First Lady. She told me about the argument. I would like your version to see if it can be corroborated.”  

To her surprise, Graham gave her a very amused smile, bordering on the smirk that the President wore when he spoke with her, as though he had to humour a child. “If you knew what the argument was about, then you’d know that Abigail would never breathe a word of it to anyone.”

He brought his own coffee to the table and sat opposite to her; if getting called on a bluff would upset her, she wouldn’t belong on the job. Caught and unapologetic, she asked, 

“Something illegal?”

“Nope.” His eyes glanced from hers just long enough to know that he was lying. 

She leaned her elbows on the table and lowered her tone an octave to sound more compassionate. “You understand that if it is a matter that might be deemed illegal, there are special waivers and confidentialities that you’re eligible for.” 

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Kade gave a heavy sigh. She had anticipated resistance, yes, but what she was facing with this investigation was almost unheard of. Drumming her fingers on the table, trying to breath in through her nose to keep herself from overreacting, she considered how she was going to handle the man across from her. He was worse than the President—all these fucking catty remarks and the constant attitude like she was doing him some sort of disservice. She had no idea what the fuck his problem was—if anyone should want this wrapped up, it should be him. But then, nothing from the start of this had been easy and she felt as though something dark and foreboding was directing the current everything was drifting on, a riptide waiting on the horizon to drag her under. 

She hated surprises. 

Stirring her coffee to mix in the thin milk, hoping that if he provided her more insight, she’d find what she needed to pick the matter apart. “Help me understand.”

Graham exhaled softly, tension in his face. “I’m mad at him, I’m never going to forgive him, and we’re not together. Simple as that.”

Kade raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You’re still fucking him.”

This earned a look of disgust. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

“And he’s not willing to let you go? You must be quiet the catch,” she said sarcastically.

“He seems to think so,” the man grumbled over his coffee.

“The First Lady, too. She’s not giving up on her quest to get you back.”

She seemed to have hit a nerve, as his response was to take a cheap shot. “You’re fucking the Vice President.”

Kade didn’t flinch, even though her heart jumped; she’d spent another evening out on a carefully orchestrated drive around the city with the other woman, though it had remained chaste. “No, I’m not.”

He gave her an appraising look. “Not yet.”

Kade had had enough of these games. “Mr Graham, why is everyone turning this into the fucking JFK assassination?” she snapped. “I just need the information of what happened that night, leading up to Brian Zeller shooting you. Everywhere I turn, people shut their mouths or give me some run around, bullshit answer. I can’t finish this if I don’t know what happened.”

“Just don’t worry about it. Whatever evidence you have, work with it and then make a conclusion. You don’t need to—the details you want aren’t going to help you here.”

Kade leaned in, her voice again calm. “Mr Graham, I am aware that you have started attending the shooting range and Agent Brown has filed paperwork for you to obtain a firearm and concealed carry permit. Are you concerned you might be in danger and facing retaliation?”

His eyes widened. “No. No, I just—“ 

Kade hoped this was the right track she was on. “I’m not going to allow Agent Zeller to return to work, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Graham looked troubled. “Zeller was just doing his job. He shouldn’t lose it just because—“

“He shot you. He does not need to work for the White House or the Treasury Department anymore.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I asked for a gun because I always wanted to be a cop.”

Kade leaned back in her seat, watching him with complete distaste. “I just want to end this. I’m not looking to get your boyfriend impeached, I’m not looking to have you outed as a fucking nutjob. This a case that has to be closed. And I’m not covering anything up—I’m going to do my job.”

Graham shook his head. “This isn’t anything personal, Agent Purnell. I am telling you that what went on between the First Family and I has nothing to do with why Agent Zeller shot me. Whatever he’s told you is the truth.” He stood from the kitchen table, pushing his mug of coffee away. “I’m done. My story isn’t changing and I have nothing more to say. So get your helicopter off my fucking field.”

And with that, Graham left the kitchen, huffing and muttering something to Agent Brown, which sent the agent trailing after him. She pushed her own mug of coffee away and packed up her briefcase once more, exiting out the back of the house as she waved her hand at the Marine flying the Nighthawk to start up the blades again. 

*****

Tonight’s dinner involved tofu (which Hannibal was certain Will didn’t particularly care for in the first place) and a Thai theme. It was unusual for Will’s palette, but Hannibal was certain that if the younger man tried it, he’d enjoy the food. Once invited into the house in Wolf Trap, he offered it over, still warm from the White House kitchens. 

“Good evening, Will. I brou—“

Will took the dish out of his hands, looking pained. “Go upstairs. I’ll…take care of this.”

Hannibal frowned slightly, not moving. “I would prefer that you don’t throw it out.”

Will gave him a tired stare. “Just go upstairs.”

As Hannibal walked up the staircase, he heard Agent Brown approach Will as he walked into the kitchen.

“Everything all right, Mr Graham?” the agent asked curiously.

Hannibal didn’t linger to hear Will’s reply, knowing that Will would deflect the attention away to avoid addressing his discomfort. Once in Will’s bedroom, Hannibal began to settle in. He removed his jacket and placed it over the back of the chair in the room; Will might pretend that he was being presumptive undressing without permission, but they both knew where this evening was going to take them. He loosened, then removed his tie, neatly draping that as well. Alone, he allowed himself an indulgent smile, neatening the bed covers and then straightening the pillows. In less than a second he decided against removing all of his clothes, not wanting to deprive Will of a task he might enjoy doing himself or watch Hannibal do. Glancing back at his tie, he debated draping it back around his neck. No, he was fond of this particular tie—he didn’t need Will to have an opportunity to ruin it. 

Soon enough there were footsteps on the stairs indicating Will was returning to him and he sat down on the edge of the bed, looking expectant. Will came into the room and locked the door behind him, eyes not quite meeting Hannibal’s, though there were definite signs of arousal that didn’t require Hannibal to rely on the younger man’s pupil dilation. Hannibal stood as Will crossed the room to go into the bathroom. 

“Will—“

“Bend over, please.” Will gestured towards the bed, and Hannibal noted that his lover’s hands had a slight tremor to them. 

He’d retrieved a bottle from the bathroom, that was marked ‘silicone based’. Ah, a better brand. And unscented—how considerate. As Hannibal undid his trousers, he could hear a slight breathiness in Will’s voice. 

“Yeah, bend over.” 

So Will wanted him to be his quick fuck for the night. That was fine with Hannibal—it was bringing them into a routine, which was what Will needed during this time. In the prone state, he waited patiently for Will to lubricate his fingers and relaxed as the other man slid the first one in. He knew that Will was noting that he had prepared himself before arriving because he’d known Will wouldn’t eat dinner with him this night or any night over the rest of the week. He heard Will inhale loudly and he shifted his weight just enough to change the angle of Will’s finger. A second was eased in and he let out a low, content moan; behind him he could hear Will pulling down his zip and popping the top of the lube bottle again. Hannibal ducked his head to hide his smile, spreading his legs a little wider. There was a wet noise—‘He’s coating himself,’—and then he felt Will take a step closer. Close enough to feel Will’s jeans against the back of his thighs, he anticipated the fingers pushing into him again, adding more of the slick wetness to ease Will’s passage and Hannibal knew that if those fingertips went a bit further and pressed, he’d be left quivering at the stimulation of his prostate. He wondered if Will would grant him that mercy this evening.  

“Brace your knees on the mattress,” Will ordered, his voice low and thick. 

Hannibal did as requested and not a moment later, Will was pushing into him; he closed his eyes and exhaled sharply as that familiar fullness overwhelmed him for just a moment, knowing that it was overwhelming for Will, too. They were made to be compatible for one another and while he didn’t believe in a grand design, he liked the thought of symmetry and that Will fit into that mirroring of himself. 

Will didn’t say anything, simply gave (what Hannibal assumed was) a reassuring squeeze to his hip before pushing in all the way; Hannibal let out a shuddering moan, because it truly felt good and if he and Will weren’t to have secrets between them, then there was no point in hiding his pleasure. Will moved slowly at first, deciding on a pace that suited himself and to a lesser extent, Hannibal; Hannibal didn’t care what Will believed—he was a decent lover when he’d simply take what he wanted. And tonight Will was certainly raw in the way Hannibal liked. 

“Will,” he panted, readjusting the position of his hands on the bed.

“Fuck, Hannibal,” Will groaned. “You want more?”

“Yes!” He made sure his plea didn’t sound overdone lest Will realise he was faking.

Will forced his hips sharply against Hannibal. “Like this?”

“Oh, yes,” he moaned to encourage. 

“Oh, fuck yeah, just like that.”

“Harder. Please.”

“Open you legs more,” Will ordered. 

“I—my trousers—“

Hannibal didn’t have time to finish his sentence as Will suddenly pushed him forward on the bed; his face pressed into the quilt and he could feel his trousers being pulled roughly down to his ankles, Will pushing him further up onto the bed so that he could kneel behind him, pressing back into him with urgency. Will groaned loudly, and Hannibal imagined him with his head tossed back as he resumed his original pace. 

Will didn’t normally take Hannibal in this manner, preferring to have them face to face; it had something to do with Will’s association of eye contact equaling intimacy. Hannibal wondered if this position was consideration for his injured shoulder and made plans to check the injury when they were finished. His ankles felt restricted due to the trousers and he blocked the discomfort from that feeling to focus on the sound of the other man’s breathing; he reached down to pull his shirt up higher on his waist and then reached back down to start stroking himself off. He was half erect simply from the pleasure of having Will in a non-argumentative state. 

“No,” Will growled in his ear and Hannibal brought his hand back around to grab onto the quilt.

Unable to hold back the impatience he felt, he rocked back on Will, a wordless protest that the other man wasn’t giving him what he wanted. He allowed a heady moan into the bunched quilts, reaching back to find Will’s right hand on his hip, but Will pulled his hand away, refusing that contact as well. 

“Will,” he choked out in warning as the other man managed to finally make contact with his prostate.

“What?”

“Let me touch you,” Hannibal ordered.

“You didn’t say ‘please’,” the younger man mocked. 

“Will!” he growled, then gasped at the pressure again, eyes nearly rolling back in his head. 

Will draped himself across Hannibal’s back, whispering into his ear, “No, no, shhh…just take it.”

Hannibal groaned, pushing back so that Will was at a deeper, more pleasurable angle and once again he hid his smile. Will was seeking Hannibal’s resistance, which he saw as undesirable behaviour that he would correct. It was vile to be compared to one of Will’s strays, but Will had never been particularly subtle in his attempts at coercion and Hannibal took comfort in the fact he was still the one really in control. Thrusting his hips back, he was able to fuck himself properly, considering it wasn’t entirely selfish judging by the sounds Will was making. He could feel the lube dripping sticky down his skin and the sweat rolling from the small of his back to his shoulders.

“Are you getting close?” Will was panting and nosing at his neck.

“Oh, William,” he moaned, ready to have his orgasm forced from him. 

“Tell me when,” Will whispered.

Hannibal nodded, his body electric and on edge, nearly unable to process the stimulation without becoming overwhelmed. Two, three more thrusts—

“ _William_ ,” he gasped.

And Will pulled out.

He’d not anticipated that and before he could change the situation to throw Will on his back and ride him to completion, his hips were pushed down against the mattress, Will’s hand on the small of his back to hold him in place. As he panted into the quilt, eyes still wide, he could hear Will masturbating loudly and then there was heat across his still sensitive hole, the head of Will’s cock touching, but making no attempt to press inside as he came. He let out a frustrated growl, angry to be denied union with the man he loved, aware that Will wasn’t paying attention to him as he worked through his orgasm. Will finally released him, rolling off his back to lie down on the bed and catch his breath. 

The sensations of being on edge and the emptiness and the trailing stickiness that made the hair on the back of his neck stand caught up with him in a rush of anger and pride that Will would treat him that way—he’d come so far from being the sweet boy who’d always avoided confrontation.Hannibal stood from the bed, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand to wipe himself clean, relieved his arousal had been adequately killed by Will’s indifference to him. Once sufficiently clean, he pulled his trousers up from their twisted and wrinkled state around his ankle; he made a quick face at the feeling of dressing in rumpled clothing while still smelling of sex, but that was a trivial matter in the grand scheme of things. 

“How is your shoulder, Will?” he asked flatly, forcing away any sort of emotion; he knew the other man was looking for a negative reaction to chastise him over and he would not provide him further opportunity to belittle him. 

“It’s sore.” Will sounded tired and honest.

“Your physician has been ensuring it’s healing properly?” Hannibal wanted to run his hands over the wound, kiss it with the reverence it deserved, but he kept his hands to himself, tucking in his shirt. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good,” he said quietly and there was silence between them.

“Hannibal?”

He turned to look back at the man still lying on the bed. “Yes, Will?”

“You don’t have to keep bringing me dinner.” Will paused, his eyes looking away. “We’re not together, you know.”

Hannibal’s hands clenched momentarily, channeling his anger from his voice. “Then what are we?”

“Nothing.”

Were he a lesser man, his heart might have been broken. “Then why am I here?” 

“Because you won’t let me go.”

Hannibal finished with his belt and looked over Will’s naked lower half; while Will’s abdomen was flat to begin with, it had started to develop the concave look of someone who was neglecting themselves. “You’ve lost weight. I would suggest you eat the meal the kitchen made for you.”

The younger man sighed. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not yours to worry about.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Will. You will always be mine to worry about.” Retrieving his coat and tie, he turned back to Will and politely asked, “Would you walk me to the door?”

“Yeah.” 

Will took a moment to get off the bed and put on a scruffy plaid robe that Hannibal had graciously left for him when Will had been in the hospital and he and Abigail had taken care of his home; Will looked exhausted and as he walked by Hannibal, Hannibal decided that the younger man smelt wonderfully of sex. Down the stairs in silence, Hannibal put his coat on and at the front door, Will stood with his arms crossed, attempting to look as though having a living room and porch full of agents didn’t bother him. 

“Goodnight, Will,” he said softly, leaning in to kiss the other man’s beautiful lips, though was denied when Will turned away at the last moment.

“William,” he said sternly, still leant in.

Will said nothing in return, frowning heavily as he kept his face turned away; Hannibal could see Will’s eye looking at him cautiously and not one to force a return of affection, he decided against turning the other man to face him. He kissed the younger man’s cheek once, twice. 

“I love you,” he murmured softly, feeling Will tense against him slightly.

But the words were not returned and so he turned away to leave. 

*****///*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter on July 25th. Thank you for your comments as always!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

It was Monday evening and Kade sat at home in her pyjamas, looking over the case file that was still too thin to be considered a thorough investigation. She’d been over it so many times that she found herself reciting it line for line in her dreams. Grabbing the personnel file that had become a thorn in her side, she flipped it open to look at the name that had been underlined in red. 

Will Graham. Asshole, brilliant, defensive—he was a disaster to keep around the White House and the President and she wasn’t exactly thrilled that the First Family was so keen to continue this secret relationship. Bedelia had considered the whole affair pathetic and made that very clear over dinner the night before. “I just don’t understand,” the Vice President had said as she held her glass of Chianti, “what my cousin and Abigail see in that man. Hannibal was so happy before him and now Mr Graham has left him bereft of the structure that is our legacy. This man is slowly tearing our Camelot apart.” Kade had agreed of course. She was very uncomfortable with the fact a knife had been held to Lecter’s throat, the cold dread causing her stomach to lurch as she pictured it each time. Glaring at his surly file photo, she looked over the detailed reports that Agent Brown had taken since Graham had been discharged from the clinic in Baltimore. Highlighter in hand, she began to mark lines of interest—all involved the heavy drinking he’d been doing night after night. Selecting the ballpoint tucked behind her ear, lazily she wrote in loopy cursive, _‘Possible alcohol problem’_. 

Something clicked in her mind and she looked over at the stack of reports. Fingers flitting quickly through the papers, she located the summer reports taken by Agent Katz and other various evening agents. Scanning the words, she highlighted the various sections that mentioned Graham consuming alcohol in-excess: drunk on the beach and stumbling in the surf until the President retrieved him; drinking all the beer in the Residence kitchen the night the President addressed the nation regarding Syria; drinking heavily at his residence the night he’d gone home early after their relationship had been announced to Secret Service. 

She smiled in disbelief, shaking her head. There was a definite pattern here and she grabbed the statement one of the evening agents had made about the night before the incident. _‘President Lecter was cleaning vomit off the floor; explained that Graham had gotten sick, wasn’t feeling well.’_ She found President Chilton’s statement next. _‘Yes, Mr Graham hardly ate, though. Only took one bite of the meal and then requested more wine from Lecter. Demanded white wine actually—wasted a perfectly good glass of the red.’_ Then there was the incident a few nights before when the First Lady had visited; Agent Barney Matthews had written that _‘Graham was shouting and yelling that she didn’t love him’_. And Agent Brown had written that later the President arrived to provide medical assistance for injuries sustained while intoxicated. 

Quickly writing down a timeline, she felt a tremendous weight lift off her shoulders as a larger picture began to form. 

*****

To Abigail, one of the perks of becoming the First Lady was that her office constantly received deliveries of clothing from well known and up-and-coming designers; they were all so much fun to look at and on Sundays after brunch, she and her father would sort through them. Most items weren’t kept simply because her father didn’t like them, and occasionally others were sent back because there was concern the pieces might not fit the image the White House wanted to project. 

But with the announcement of the First Family’s annual visit to Lithuania to place a wreath at the memorial for the Lecter family, design houses from all over the world were sending things for she and her father to wear. This afternoon she stood in the Yellow Room with Georgia, sorting through the collection of packages that had been brought up for her to decide upon; she’d been most excited to investigate the boxes from Chanel that featured winter clothing not available to anyone else yet. There was a round box that revealed a Zhivago-esque pill box hat that was made of imitation blue fox fur and she affixed it firmly to her head, basking in the sudden warmth and comfort it brought.

Georgia touched her elbow to shake her from her thoughts. “Your dad’s here.”

She glanced back to the room’s doorway to see him standing in the doorway. “Okay. Would you mind leaving us alone?” 

Georgia nodded, getting up from her seat to excuse herself towards the kitchen. “Sure, I’m going to get something to drink. Just text me if you need anything.”

She smiled at her father as he walked over, his eyes focused on the hat she still had on. “Do you like it? Chanel sent it over.”

He touched the hat and she held her breath as he brought his fingers to touch it, studying. “I do detest fake fur, but I suppose to spare an animal…”

As she’d always done when her father didn’t like something, she began to start the process of forcing herself to find faults to protect herself from any sort of disappointment in his rejection of it. “If you don’t like it…”

He smiled at her. “It looks quite becoming on you, Abigail.”

She felt a mental vertigo on the matter as relief returned, and also the 

“I just—I just want everything to be perfect for it.” She switched from English to Lithuaninan. _“Forty-years. I want it to be perfect for you. It means so much to me that you’re…”_

She couldn’t finish the sentence, and he placed his hands on her shoulders. 

_“I am happy, Abigail.”_

_“That’s all that matters to me. Your happiness.”_ Her eyes watered and she watched him cautiously. _“You know that, right?”_

 _“I do.”_ He graced her with a loving smile. _“And your thoughtfulness does not go unnoticed.”_ He pulled her close into an embrace and while deep down she knew it was merely a performance for her, she still appreciated it. _“I lost you and then you were returned.”_

Her father’s assistant entered the room, quietly announcing, “Mr President, your hair check is in two minutes.”

Abigail grimaced; once a week, they were forced to have a quick check for lice due to the amount of public exposure they faced. She’d never had lice and the mere thought of the insects made her scalp itch. 

“Thank you, Ms Mapp,” her father said and the woman nodded, dismissing herself out of the room.

“I’ve already received my clean bill of health,” Abigail told him, though she was certain he already knew this. 

He looked behind her at the other boxes stacked about the seating and his hand absently smoothed her hair along her shoulders. “Tonight we shall decide what you’ll wear when we are in Vilnius.”

She nodded obediently, the smallest warmth of relief filling her; she didn’t need to guess about what made him happy if he’d just tell her instead. Thinking wasn’t hard for her obviously, but trying to outwit her father was completely impossible and the distress she felt trying to figure out what he wanted served no purpose. As he departed, she placed the hat back into the box and began to look through the next package. Georgia returned a moment later, eyes locked onto the screen of her tablet as she sidestepped furniture by instinct alone; she wore a look of concern and Abigail paused in the gloves she was attempting to unwrap. 

“What?”

Georgia looked up and then reluctantly said, “Hmm, someone wrote an article that your father is ‘suspiciously bachelor’…”

Abigail was familiar with that particular dog whistle. “So they’re saying he’s gay.”

Her face went red and she glanced away. “Oh, um…yes, I guess they are.”

As she had been taught to, Abigail sought out the small insecurity and harnessed it for an ounce more of control over the other woman. “Georgia, this administration doesn’t consider homosexuality to be shameful, so then there’s nothing wrong with suggesting he might or might not be gay.”

Georgia looked remorseful, her brow furrowing. “Right. Sorry.”

“The GOP are the ones implying it’s something wrong and people are following their example. I…” She glanced past her assistant and felt a small spark of excitement at the sight of the woman standing in the doorway and took a step away from Georgia, ignoring her as she addressed the agent who smiled at her. “Hello, Agent Purnell. Is there something I can help you with?”

Purnell stepped into the room, surprisingly sans her briefcase, instead holding just a simple leather folio. “Good morning, First Lady. I have a few questions for you if you have a moment.”

Abigail’s eyes shifted to her assistant once more and Georgia said quietly. “You have about ten more minutes before you have to go back down stairs.” 

“I have ten minutes,” she told the agent politely and then to Georgia, “If you’ll excuse us.”

As her assistant left and the agent entered, Abigail moved a few boxes to the floor and offered for Purnell to sit down on one of the couches, taking a seat across from her; with a smile, she inquired, “What can I help you with?”

“Does Mr Graham have a problem with alcohol?”

The question came so fast she didn’t have time to lose her smile. “What?”

“Was the argument you and your father had with Mr Graham concerning his drinking?” Purnell was serious and Abigail felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a fast approaching vehicle. “I believe I’ve discovered the cause of the argument you and your father had with Mr Graham. Mr Graham is obviously a man with a drinking problem—I have many documented incidents of his intoxication, ranging from the summer to last night.”

“What?” Abigail echoed again dumbly.

“I believe you and your father were trying to stage an intervention or a comment was made about his drinking; President Chilton informed me that Mr Graham refused to eat at dinner, that he simply requested wine.” Abigail’s mind quickly filled in the space in her own memories with the image of Chilton sitting before Purnell, sneer on his lips as he recounted his evening. Purnell continued. “I also have a statement from Agent Patterson that when he went into the kitchen, he found your dad cleaning up vomit off the floor, which he said was Graham’s.” 

Abigail was having a hard time controlling her shock and overall horror at what she was hearing. 

“Mr Graham was very uncomfortable when I brought up whether or not the fight was over something illegal. Now, being an alcoholic isn’t a crime, but it’s certainly not something he’d want to admit to.” Purnell steepled her hands across her knee; panic rose from Abigail’s stomach, tasting like bile. “That leaves only one thing to fit: you and your father addressed his drinking problem and he got upset. Many people who have addictions are living in a state of denial and to be confronted by people they love would be very painful and stressful. It would explain why he’s resistant to return. Graham has been avoiding you and your father because he’s upset over all of this. He’s feeling alone and hurt still. Agent Zeller has obviously realised Graham’s alcohol problem—perhaps when he overheard the argument, perhaps through his own deductive skills. So it was natural inclination for him to assume Graham was intoxicated when he had the knife to your father’s throat.” Purnell opened the folio beside her and held up a handful of marked Secret Service reports. “I have extensive documentation of Graham’s alcohol consump—“ 

Abigail stood up quickly at this, her words rushed. “I’m sorry—I need to go.”

“First Lady—“

Abigail didn’t wait to hear what else the agent had to say, abandoning Purnell to get to her father in the private salon by the elevator. She was completely shaken and without concern for how rude it was to interrupt her father’s conversation with the hairdresser looking for lice, she said as calmly as possible,

“I need to talk to you. Now.”

“If you will excuse me,” her father said to the woman who held a comb.

She nodded and smiled, removing the protective gown that covered his clothing. “You’re fine anyway.”

He gave the woman his thanks and then led Abigail to the privacy of his bedroom, shutting the door behind him and she immediately whispered, “Agent Purnell thinks that Will’s an _alcoholic_.”

Her father didn’t even blink. “He is.”

“No, I mean, she thinks that’s what the argument was about. That we tried to hold an intervention and he got upset and left.”

He took her hands in his. “That’s wonderful news.”

Again, she was left absolutely bewildered. “What?”

“She has led herself to this conclusion and there is no reason to let her think otherwise,” he explained. 

“But Will…that’s so horrible.” Her chest felt tight and her throat had a large knot in it.

“It is difficult to hear. But it is wisest to use this to our advantage.”

At this, her voice cracked. “What about Will?”

He wiped one of her tears away. “Will shall not jeopardise the life he wishes to share with us. He will play along.”

“I don’t want it on his personal record that he’s got a problem.” She knew he hated when she begged, but she was desperate and at the least, she had to try. 

As expected, her father continued to disagree. “We would have to deal with his alcoholism at some point, Abigail. I would rather have the three of us face it now, than later.”

She thought about Purnell and everyone who’d traitorously wrote about Will in their daily reports. “He doesn’t deserve having the Secret Service judging him.”

“We cannot always spare the ones we love from judgement, my love. Even our Will.”

“I just want to protect him. I don’t want people to think he’s not worthy of our time.”

“We needn’t explain ourselves to others, Abigail. We owe them nothing. Will owes them nothing. And we have to teach him that, don’t we?”

“Yes,” she agreed without hesitation. 

He smiled at her encouragingly until her own smile became genuine and finally there was the spark of warmth behind his eyes. 

“Dry your eyes and get ready for your radio address to the nation,” he instructed and she nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, grateful he was able to put her mind at ease. 

She held onto his hand a moment longer, forcing away her anxiety as she readied herself emotionally and then let him pull away so that they could both return to their respective posts.

*****

Tuesday morning the President had a scheduled tour and speech at GWU, a nicety for the university allowing the First Lady to attend Will Graham’s classes four times a week; Ardelia suspected that there had been a generous donation to cover a lack of tuition. Or, knowing what she did about the President, it was also likely that a tuition had been paid in full for her limited and late courses. The speech concerned the new stimulus packages that he was instituting and would take effect at the end of the year; there was no doubt that the students and faculty here would enjoy this—it sounded lifted straight from the lectures that Graham gave. 

The tour earlier had been fairly routine: shake hands, look interested, stay out of any photos being taken of the President. She had gone to GWU and once this job finished, planned on continuing her education here. Professors stood in awe of the President, trying to ask clever questions. Students crowded around, requesting photos with him and his signature. Ardelia had handed over dozens of wet wipes for the President to covertly clean his hands with after greeting so many people. She’d also kept various pens and sharpies for signing any object that was put before him; he had the quirk of refusing to sign clothing, stating kindly that he didn’t find it ‘appropriate’ to deface someone’s shirt, hat, and rarely, jacket. Ardelia was starting to see how carefully he postured and positioned himself to prevent anyone from getting an opportunity to make physical contact with him and considering how many people wanted to get to him, Ardelia could see that he’d need a break from the public so she herself started acting as a barrier between him and anyone that might become a distraction. 

The President continued looking at the door and she wondered if he was expecting someone.

“Are you looking for Mr Graham?” 

“I had hoped he would attend, but I know he is very busy man.”

When Ardelia would replay the moment over later, she would realise that nothing had changed in the way he’d said it, or the way he’d looked, but something finally clicked within her and it made _sense_ why Graham had a very special place in the world of the White House and the Administration.

Oh god. Was he—

Were Will Graham and the President in a relationship?

“Ms Mapp, I assume I don’t have to emphasise the importance of maintaining a certain level of decorum in your privileged post?” the President asked her; his voice was low and his eyes were dark, and she swallowed hard.

“No, sir.”

His eyes held hers and she was too intimidated to look away; and then he nodded once and turned away, and she was able to breathe again. The President was ushered to the stage and she began to scan the room that contained the rest of the entourage that they traveled with. Secret Service agents, lesser assistants, aides, and other essentials that coordinated his presence here—did any of them know? No, they couldn’t! If this was known by anyone, it would be leaked to the press immediately, because who wouldn’t want to know that the President was with?

Jack Crawford met her eyes, a very cold and stern look on his face; she looked away, wondering if her expression was giving everything away. The secret was heavy and she had to ground herself, focusing her eyes on the Blackberry in her hand. Her thumbs scanned through the schedule and she felt her heart stop at the reminder that yes, Hannibal would be going to visit Graham this evening. She’d spent the past few weeks thinking this was about caring for a friend, even just letting doctor’s instincts take over to ensure the other man was okay. But now everything held a bittersweet tone—this was a man who couldn’t openly spend time with someone he loved, couldn’t openly worry about him without putting himself in jeopardy politically and physically.

She took a deep breath.

Right. She was a gate keeper now, someone who would act as one more layer between his personal life and the outside world. She felt ready to take up a sword and shield for him, preparing herself for a silent, invisible battle. Hannibal Lecter’s presidency would not be compromised because of this. 

*****

“Shouldn’t you be at the President’s assembly?” Molly Foster asked as she sat down beside him at the bar they’d frequented after work.

Will had already had too much to drink this afternoon and while he wasn’t drunk, he was certainly working towards it. “Why aren’t you? You’re a ‘Lectercrat’, after all.”

“Didn’t get a pass,” she explained as she motioned for the bar tender“Could have let me borrow yours, you know,” she teased. 

Will said nothing, taking another drink of his beer. She continued talking about Hannibal and the policies he was no doubt going to discuss to the students and faculty, and Will wanted nothing more than to tune her out. But he couldn’t and he thought of the powerful way Hannibal orated, all the confidence and surety a world leader needed. He watched her lips moving, thought about Hannibal’s lips moving and he declared bluntly,  

“You look very kissable.” 

Her eyebrows raised and her lips curled into an excited smile. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” 

He could feel her happiness at being found desirable and he wanted to taste that for himself, so he crossed the distance between them; she tasted like her beer and the sweetness of her lipstick—a hint of vanilla, perhaps.  

“Sorry. I’m a really bad kisser,” he said as he pulled away, not making eye contact.

But her smile was cheeky and she suggested flirtatiously, “Maybe you just need practice.”

“Yeah, maybe.” 

He leaned in and kissed her again, semi-aware of how sloppy he was. The white noise of the bar drowned out any thoughts he might otherwise have, trying not to compare her to the leader of the free world. She was smiling against his lips and he’d never felt anything more vulgar in his life. Kisses should feel like keeping secrets, should be stolen and only committed under the safety of the dark. These kisses felt no different than polling numbers and statistics—safe, predictable, and decaff.  

“I gotta go,” he mumbled, pulling back and turning away as he took his wallet out to pay for his beers.

“Yeah.” Her smile was beaming, a sunniness that he never saw with Hannibal. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He didn’t say anything in response and allowed Agent Brown to lead him out of the bar.

*****

That evening when Hannibal arrived in Wolf Trap, he found Will sitting at the base of the pear tree on the farthest edge of his property and Hannibal joined him; they were shoulder to shoulder and Will turned to him, eyes lingering on his lips before quietly reciting Kahlil Gibran to him. 

“I followed you, O Night, until I became like unto you;

I went as your companion until your desires became mine;

I loved you until my whole being was indeed a lesser image of your own.”

Hannibal wished to lean in and capture those chapped lips, taste the stale beer and cheap bar peanuts that had become brackish on his tongue, thread his hand through Will’s unruly hair and feel the heat of his scalp. But he did none of this things, keeping distance between them so that Will wouldn’t protest. He had been made aware that Will had been drinking again, first at a bar near the university and then at his home. 

“Do you miss the ease, Will? That we knew our roles and fulfilled them perfectly?” he asked, foregoing any greeting.

Will turned to look at the woods. “Our roles in your tragic comedy. Is this how you thought the script would play out?”

“I knew at some point in our lives you would find out.” Hannibal exhaled through his nose. “I had estimated the coming spring however. A year.” Now he gave a sigh. “It would have been more symbolic. Death of your old life, the entrance of your new one.”

“That I’d be better brainwashed?” Will’s tone was bitter.

“That you would see me not as a crude, power hungry villain, but as your equal who loves and treasures you,” Hannibal promised.

“You don’t treasure me.”

“I do.” He looked down at Will’s hands, which were clenching. “Sweet boy, tell me how to ease your heart.”

“I hate you so much.”

“Love and hate are very similar, are they not?”

Will stared off at the trees for a moment before singing softly, “Will you still love me tomorrow…”

Hannibal was only vaguely familiar with the song, but enough to know that the younger man was slightly off key. “Did you father sing that when he was drunk and lonely for your absent mother, Will?”

“Don’t,” Will said softly. 

“You didn’t attend my speech today,” Hannibal stated after a moment.

“I didn’t want to see you.”

“I missed you.”

Will’s brow furrowed. “No, you didn’t. You had an entire enthralled campus watching you.”

Hannibal smiled, because that was very true. “How is our daughter doing? Is she enjoying your classes?”

“I’m not giving her special treatment,” Will spat.

“Nor should you. She mustn’t think that we don’t hold her to high standards.”

Again, Will fell silent and Hannibal didn’t force the issue; it took a minute before Will decided to offer something to say. “Agent Purnell had a helicopter land in my field.”

“How dramatic.”

Will gave a small shrug. “It’s all anyone in town can talk about.”

Hannibal smiled. “How quaint.”

They were quiet again and Hannibal knew that Will’s intoxicated state was not hindering his brain’s high function, but what he was focusing on. “FOX news thinks you’re a socialist for abandoning Columbus Day. Shouldn’t have done that.”

“It doesn’t coincide with my values, sweet boy.”

“Fucking too lazy to go on camera,” Will murmured, leaning his head against Hannibal’s shoulder.

Leaning in, Hannibal closed his eyes and breathed in; he could smell Ms Foster’s perfume, the cheap cigarette smoke from whatever bar he’d been in, the oily chips that Will had had for dinner, and something far more pleasant. “Mmm, you smell better. New cologne?”

“I ran out of aftershave and Matthew brought me some this morning.”

Something ugly curled in Hannibal’s gut at the familiarity in Will using the agent’s given name. “I see,” he said neutrally, not wanting the other man to know he wasn’t happy. “Shall I have Ardelia pick up something more complimenting to your body chemistry and have it brought over?”

Will pulled away. “You don’t need to do things for me.”

“I like doing things for you.”

“Did you like doing ‘things’ like Douglas Wilson?” Will asked angrily, whispering the trombonist’s name

“One of my favourite gifts,” Hannibal murmured in the younger man’s ear. The sun had set and a chill had taken to the field, but the first glimmer of stars had appeared and felt as though the entire universe was being laid out at their feet. “I would create a thousand symphonies for you. Every instrument. String a thousand dancers from the sky and fill every member of the audience with a bouquet. Our love is what civilizations are built on, what myths and religions wish they could capture to bring others to tears.”

“Why is everything you say so beautiful?”

He closed his eyes as a smile appeared on his lips; he couldn’t help that he enjoyed Will’s flattery. “You bring out the artist in me.”

“Oh god,” Will groaned before pulling away and Hannibal’s eyes opened. 

Hannibal had been so distracted by the opportunity to serenade his young lover that he hadn’t thought about his choice of words.

“Will, you need to face what I have done and—“

“What you’ve done?! If this was something like cheating on me or telling me you wanted to slow down or take a break, I’d understand it, but what you’ve ‘done’—” he put the word in air quotes, “—isn’t something I should have to face!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not responsible for it. I’ve already had to figure out how badly the two of you fucked up my moral compass during the past few months the two of you have been in my head, skewing everything into your favour!”

“Would you think me capable of cheating on you? Would you find it preferable?” Hannibal asked coolly. 

Will didn’t get the opportunity to reply as the sound of an approaching agentcaught their attention; the man crunched across the dry grass and cleared his throat before he spoke. “Mr President, Franklyn Froideveaux is here. Do you want to grant him permission onto the property.”

Hannibal turned to Will who shook his head, shrugging. “I didn’t invite him.”

“He is Will’s guest,” Hannibal told the agent, who looked to Will for a decision. 

Will waved his hand. “Yeah, whatever.”

After a few uncoordinated attempts to stand, Will managed to get up off the ground and Hannibal stood beside him, brushing off the soil and plant material clinging to his trousers. By the time they reached the house, Franklyn was standing on the porch with a pizza box and carrying to plastic grocery bags that appeared to be filled with potato chip bags and treats, heavy and burdened with empty calories and chemicals. He maintained his composure though he desired to empty it all out into the trash.

Franklyn’s eyes stayed on Will for only a moment before he saw Hannibal and enthusiastically greeted him. “Oh, President Lecter! Hi! How are you?” He looked past the two men as Will let him into the house. “Is Abigail here?”

“Hello, Franklyn. No, she is at home at the moment.”

“Oh.” He turned to look at Will, offering out the food. “Well, I brought you some more magazines and chips and uh…” Franklyn looked down at the pizza box. “It’s got everything on it. It’s cold because I got it in Baltimore. You’re not a vegetarian, right?”

“No, he isn’t,” Hannibal said before Will could reply.  

“Oh, good.” Franklyn carried the food into the kitchen, Hannibal and Will watching as he set the bags and box down on the counter. “I thought you might be lonely, so I brought dinner. I tried to get Tobias to come with me, but he said he was busy.”

Hannibal doubted that Tobias had any intentions of being around Will.

“I’m afraid the President was just leaving,” Will said.

“Oh, that’s too bad. It’s really good pizza,” Franklyn told them. 

“I’ll see the President out and we’ll have dinner,” Will announced, grabbing Hannibal by the elbow. 

Franklyn was focused on the bags of candy he was removing from amongst the magazines. “Okay.”

As Hannibal stood on the porch, carefully out of sight of Franklyn and anyone standing outside the property line, he straightened his shirt cuffs and said softly, “You should go easy on the alcohol.”

“Get fucked,” Will murmured, his fists clenching. 

Hannibal continued. “Agent Purnell has raised concerns about your drinking. You should expect a visit from her soon.”

Will gave an exasperated sigh. “Great.”

He smiled, still wishing to reach out and touch the other man. “I love you, Will.”

Will didn’t return the warm expression. “Goodnight, Mr President.”

And with that, the door was shut in his face. 

*****///*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +The term “dog whistle” in this chapter refers to “dog-whistle politics”; its wikipedia definition is the following: “political messaging employing coded language that appears to mean one thing to the general population but has an additional, different or more specific resonance for a targeted subgroup. The phrase is only used as a pejorative, because of the inherently deceptive nature of the practice and because the dog-whistle messages are frequently themselves distasteful, for example by empathising with racist or revolutionary attitudes. Dog-whistling is specific to the political realm, and the messaging referred to as the dog-whistle has an understandable meaning for a general audience, rather than being incomprehensible.” It’s a fascinating topic.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter discusses animal cruelty. It’s not descriptive, but if you’re not interested in reading it, then the end notes have a tl;dr summary that doesn’t contain triggers.

Her father was off to Will’s for the evening and a little lonely, Abigail decided to walk laps through the White House with Winston; she greeted various staff members still lingering to finish work, smiling and allowing them to pet Winston before finally ending her walk at the Vice President’s office. Her aunt was alone in her office, sitting in one of the arm chairs before the unlit fireplace, drinking tea. 

“Good evening, Aunt Bee,” she greeted, her hand loosely on Winston’s collar to keep him by her side. 

Her aunt smiled. “Good evening, Abigail. I’m afraid I can’t join you and Hannibal for dinner tonight—I must make phone calls to ensure the Senate votes correctly on Wednesday to confirm Cousin Caroline as ambassador to Japan.”

Abigail looked at the phone sitting on the small table beside her. “That’s very thorough of you.”

“Would you like to sit?” Her aunt gestured to the arm chair beside her. 

“Thank you.”

She sat down and Winston came to place his head on her knees, looking up at her curiously. Aunt Bee offered her a plate of small chocolates and she took two; Aunt Bee began to speak fondly of Caroline, that she was so pleased that more Kennedys were finding their rightful place in politics and Abigail politely agreed, asking considerate questions about Caroline’s expectations and enthusiasms for the job. It wasn’t that the matter was boring to her, it was simply so expected—she was always getting asked what she thought of her relatives’ careers and she had hoped her aunt would provide her with better conversation. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

The phone rang and she turned to look at the empty fireplace as her aunt answered, greeting someone and speaking to them for a few minutes about the confirmation. Abigail smiled as she listened; she’d always respected her aunt’s ability to get what she needed, all created through careful manipulation and sometimes outright threats. She hoped to one day have the same level of power over others. 

After the call ended, she smiled at Aunt Bee, who offered her another chocolate. Abigail asked politely if the winds were in their favour and her aunt gave her a very mischievous smile before admitting that yes, there was no doubt that everyone wanted to see Caroline with the ambassador’s title. As they talked, she watched her aunt’s very empty stare at Winston, whose tail was wagging, and she slowly became uncomfortable with the woman’s expression; it filled her with a sense of dread and instinctively she placed a hand on Winston’s head, both to keep him close and to display ownership, daring her aunt to challenge her. She thought of how Will had said her father had seen someone abuse animals and she looked at the other woman cautiously. 

“Aunt Bee, did you hurt animals when you were child?” she asked slowly. 

Aunt Bee’s eyes lifted to look at her. “Of course.”

“Why?” 

“Why not?”

“That’s so…” She was bewildered why anyone would want to do that. 

“Hannibal has already given me this particular lecture, Abigail,” her aunt said in a bored tone. “I was eleven and he found my lobster cage on the compound.”

Abigail was hesitant to repeat the words, scared of what she might hear. “Lobster cage?”

“It was my personal zoo. It’s where I kept the animals I found.” Her aunt selected a chocolate from the plate and then offered them to Abigail. 

Ignoring the chocolate, Abigail swallowed hard. “What were you doing to them?”

“Whatever I wanted.” Aunt Bee smiled. “It’s amazing how persistent an animal can be when it wants to live. What lengths they’re willing to go to, to escape. How much blood and body they can lose. How a dog still has faith that you might be kind.” Aunt Bee glanced down at Winston and Abigail nearly flinched. “Hannibal found the dog I had and took it to the Hyannis Port vet. Apparently he told the man that he’d found the cage in the forest. The vet put it down.”

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” Abigail asked, her stomach churning. 

Bedelia turned her attention to the fireplace, drinking the tea. “You and I are more alike than you realise.”

“I’ve **never** wanted to hurt an animal.” Abigail had never—even in her wildest dreams—wanted to see an animal suffer. There was nothing inside of her like her aunt. 

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, Abigail. You’re just a little girl who thinks she knows what she wants.”

Abigail was insulted for a moment, but pushed that away in order to ask, “What else did you kill?”

“My first three Caramels.”

Aunt Bee had created the tradition to have a chestnut horse named Caramel; Abigail’s first horse, a gift from Aunt Bee had been named as such and three years ago, when her horse been put down after a terrible injury, she’d gained the second mare named Caramel. Abigail had always thought the tradition was lovely and a grand bond that she alone shared with Aunt Bee, but now that illusion had been shattered horribly.

“But you love horses—“

“I love _dressage_ , Abigail. There’s a difference.” Her aunt set her tea back down, looking down her nose at Abigail. “They’re really a stupid animal. It’s not difficult to feed them yew. 

Abigail stood from the chair and put her hand around Winston’s collar. “I need to go.” She gave a very stern look to her aunt as she walked to the door. “And stay away from my dog.”

Her aunt’s smile was both beautiful and a smirk. “Noted.”

*****///*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUMMARY: Abigail meets with Bedelia and comes to the realisation that Bedelia is the reason Hannibal never allowed her to have a pet. Bedelia abused animals as a child and Hannibal finally forced her to stop, saying he found it ‘lowly’ and ‘unbecoming’. Knowing Abigail’s full potential, Hannibal never felt comfortable giving Abigail an opportunity to be around animals as a result.   
> This chapter is actually the end of Chapter 13 but I separated this scene in case anyone had triggers.
> 
> +Caroline Kennedy is actually the ambassador to Japan. The confirmation by the Senate that Bedelia is steering took place on Wednesday Oct 16, 2013. She was sworn in Nov 12, 2013 and will make an appearance in upcoming chapters.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Abigail sat beside her aunt aboard the small unmarked jet that was taking the two of them to Mexico City for a very much needed publicity tour with the country neighboring the south; Abigail would maintain pleasantries in stilted Spanish with First Lady Angélica Rivera, while Aunt Bee spoke about the concerns of the long going (and _failing_ ) war on drugs as well as the influx of weapons crossing the border in both directions with President Nieto. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to the job as it was not only taking her away from Will’s lectures for the day, but because it just seemed so boring. She should be doing bigger things than the niceties all First Ladies were pigeonholed into—she wanted to be like Hilary Clinton and Eleanor Roosevelt. 

Alana approached them and when Aunt Bee removed her headphones, she said softly, “There’s a call for you in the office.”

“Thank you, Alana.” Aunt Bee stood from her seat and Abigail tucked her legs in so that she could pass her to go to the small private room at the back of the small plane. 

Alana lingered, wanting eye contact with Abigail and she looked up, offering a polite smile; Alana sat down beside her in Aunt Bee’s seat. Abigail watched the other woman’s face, searching for any clue as to what her aunt’s assistant wanted from her. There was a small hint of relief—perhaps Alana didn’t want any friction between them, as she still considered Aunt Bee and Daddy to be her friends. Yes, there was still caution in Alana, but all Abigail needed was a crack to slip through in the woman’s armour and she’d have little trouble with anything she needed in the future. She needed to be more careful with the allegances she had created because she would never know when she’d need to call upon them. 

“How are your classes?” Alana asked.

Abigail smiled broader. “They’re good.”

Alana seemed very warm towards this subject. “Will’s a good teacher?”

“He’s great. He knows so much.”

“He does,” Alana agreed, smiling as well. “You should have seen him when he was in college.”

“I would have liked that,” Abigail admitted, imagining what Will was like at her age. “I bet he always had his nose in a book.”

“Or statistics sheets. He was always trying to calculate the next big win, seeing if it matched what his intuition told him.”

“Before he truly understood his gift. He thought he was just gaining his knowledge from the numbers,” Abigail pointed out.

“He still saw a lot in those polling numbers,” Alana countered. 

“But it was the instinct that made it real to him.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Alana was quiet for a moment. “Have you seen him recently? Outside of class?”

“Um…” Abigail thought about how Will had thrown a jar of coins as he’d cried. “Yeah.”

Alana nodded. “How was he?”

“He’s busy,” she said quickly. “And he needs rest. He’s still recovering.” She wondered if she should mention the alcohol to emphasise the story the Agent Purnell had created, but decided against it almost immediately; she was still sore emotionally from the thought of dragging Will into the same pathetic reputation his father had brought upon himself. She hoped she didn’t sound too territorial when she asked, “So…have _you_ seen him?” 

“That would be ‘no’. I’m not sure how he would…” Alana’s expression hinted at her discomfort. “It would be awkward.”

“Do you still consider him a friend?” Abigail asked cautiously.

“Yes. I just know things have been weird between us lately. And then I haven’t wanted to bother him, so I kept putting it off…I really should just go see him and get it over with.”

Abigail made a noncommittal noise, not happy with the thought of Will being around Alana. What good could possibly come of that? Abigail realised Georgia was staring at her curiously. 

“Yes, Georgia?”

“Nothing.” Georgia then gave a hopeful smile. “I’d actually like to visit him.”

“I’ll try to schedule a visit then. He’s very busy,” Abigail said, trying to keep any hostility out of her voice.

“Maybe I could go with you to class,” Georgia offered.

Abigail had already gone to great lengths to keep her assistant away from Will—honestly, the last thing Will needed right now was friends! Didn’t he have enough distractions to deal with as it was? “I need you at the office. I don’t go to class to socialise.”

Mrs Madchen appeared and nodded to her daughter before talking to Abigail directly. “They want to get a few photos of you with your aunt in the office.”

“Right,” she said, relieved to be getting away from people who were trying to play upon her sympathies. “If you’ll pardon me. 

As she walked past the women, she began to plot how she was going to keep Will all to herself.  

*****

Franklyn Froideveaux didn’t consider himself to be a particularly formidable or hostile man, and in fact, considered himself to be non-confrontational and passive in most situations, but when it came to his role as Tobias Budge’s gatekeeper, he could be come rather protective and possessive of the other man. He represented the governor of Maryland with every action he made and he didn’t ever want to bring embarrassment to the man he considered his best friend. So when Freddie Lounds arrived for a morning interview, he was not only on his best behaviour, but he was doing his duty as assistant and friend to protect Tobias’ best interests. 

Tobias was running late from a coffee date with a state senate member he was trying to woo—over the budget! Not romantically!—and so Franklyn led the journalist into the governor’s office, glancing over his tablet which held the schedule for the day. He tapped his stylus against the tablet, then gestured to the chair in front of the governor’s desk. 

“If you’ll take a seat, Governor Budge will be here shortly.”

He wasn’t going to leave her alone in the office and lingered behind the desk, watching her carefully. He had no intentions of letting her plant a recording device or rummage through the room; she’d done that before to other politicians and people of note and Franklyn wasn’t going to allow Tobias to be another notch in her belt. 

She glanced around the room for a moment then looked to him. Her eyes were piercing. “Franklyn, right?”

He nodded, preparing himself for whatever tricks she had up her sleeve. “Right.”

She still had her distinct smile that made him think she’d played a cruel prank on someone and wasn’t able to keep a straight face. “You know, I’ve been dying to talk to you. You’ve been the Governor’s assistant for six years now?”

Franklyn wasn’t stupid and he straightened his shoulders. “If you’re trying to trick me into saying something bad about the Governor, then you can ju—“

“No, no! You’ve got it all wrong!” Freddie gave a soft laugh and shook her head. “I’ve got a reputation for ‘gossip’, but I’m interested in all the angles of politics. I need to smooth out some of the rougher edges my exposes have caused, and I think you’re just the man for it.”

As a man who was used to being written off as a fool, he had to admit he was now curious why he of all people would be her first choice. “Why me?”

The woman smiled broader, the nettle edges softening. “You’re likable, Franklyn. And the readers want to see likable people on my site from time to time—an oasis in the desert of despair I write about. You could write about your experiences of meeting famous dignitaries, or what kind of skills are required to become an assistant. Give a view into the world you live in.”

Franklyn pressed his lips a little tighter as he thought about that. “Oh.” That actually sounded nice. And he’d always had hopes to be a popular and well-known politician (which hadn’t really panned out), maybe this was how he’d make his claim to fame. He did know a lot about politics, even if he wasn’t a big name player. “Well, I guess that would be okay.”

She shrugged her shoulders which caused her vivid curls to bounce. “You don’t have to make a decision now—I’m a very patient woman when it’s needed.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” he agreed politely, suddenly thankful that he hadn’t just said ‘yes’ to it without checking with Tobias first.

And speaking of Tobias, the door to the office opened and in swept the tall politican. He had a look of disdain on his face as he registered Ms Lounds and made brief eye contact with Franklyn as he reached his desk and sat down.

“Ms Lounds,” he greeted cooly.

Freddie reached her small hand across the desk to shake his. “Governor Budge, thank you for your time.”

“Well, I’d hate to disappoint.” It didn’t need to be said aloud that Vice President Du Maurier had set this up, some sort favour that the Governor owed her in return for all of the palms she’d greased to get Tobias into this office. “Shall we discuss the President, then?”

Franklyn cringed; he didn’t think it was very nice to talk about what President Lecter had been like to work with, even if Tobias had nothing but nice things to say. 

“Right down to business—I like that.” Freddie removed a digital recorder from her black frame purse and set it on the desk, turning it on. “Whatever you’d like to start with.” 

Franklyn stood quietly in the corner, watching the two talk; of course there was nothing wrong with him listening to what was being said, but he tried to grant some sense of privacy. Most assistants didn’t get the privilege of listening to their boss talk during meetings or interviews, but Tobias had never kicked him out, often exchanging subtle looks of boredom or acknowledging nods. It always meant a lot to Franklyn that his boss (and best friend) regarded him so highly to give him opportunities that others didn’t have, that they had enough of a relationship that they could share those types of informalities.  

Sometimes he thought back to what President Lecter had asked if he thought he might be attracted to Tobias and half the time he wasn’t sure. But then, maybe most assistants had something akin to a crush when it came to their bosses. Not that he could imagine dating Tobias. There were too many lovely women he was surrounded by day in and day out that held his interest and probably wouldn’t be so demanding of him as his friend would be. In fact, he could almost imagine Tobias’ dry tone saying, _‘He was teasing you, Franklyn. Must you be so stupid?’_ and Franklyn glanced at Tobias briefly, feeling embarrassed for taking something so seriously. 

Tobias had left describing President Lecter’s generosity when he’d been governor to talk about the social programmes he’d successfully instituted while in office and how they’d inspired Tobias to do the same. Franklyn could tell he was choosing his words carefully so that Freddie wouldn’t be able to twist anything around in the article she’d be posting later. 

Though he wouldn’t exactly be surprised if she was able to create some sort of scandal from nothing, as she usually did. 

The interview was less than forty-five minutes, but Franklyn had already warned Freddie that the Governor was running on a tight schedule and wouldn’t be able to stay for too long. And Freddie gractiously accepted that when Tobias finally announced he had to leave. 

“Thank you for your time, Governor.”

Tobias said nothing in return, simply swept out of the room as quietly and as elegantly as he’d came; it wasn’t Tobias’ usual polite demeanour, but give Freddie an inch and she’d take a mile. Freddie stood from her chair and reached into her purse, pulling out two very slick, bright red business cards with the Tattle-Politic name printed starkly across one side and contact information on the other.  

“Franklyn, here’s a card for the governor’s records and yours. Call me when you want to set up a meeting. Maybe coffee.”

Franklyn tucked the cards into his tablet case and hoped his excitement wasn’t too obvious to the woman. “Okay. I will.” 

*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you for your patience this past month—I’ve been working very hard and haven’t had time to write. But today was my last day with this month’s hectic schedule, so I’ll be back to regular updates every Friday. 
> 
> From Sept 3-14 I’ll be on a much needed vacation, but fear not—I’ll be making almost daily updates to an Aristocratsverse AU side fic. If that’s something you’d be interested in, make sure to subscribe to Aristocrats AU, which houses the story mixtapes and (soon enough) other side stories. A hint? It’s going to be about Tony the Nurse, whom has made brief cameos in both fics. 
> 
> And thank you once again for everyone’s lovely comments—I try to reply to them all, but I assure you that all are read and enjoyed. You are all the best!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd

Margot pushed at the quelling of nausea that had been building since she’d entered her twin’s bedroom. He wanted something from her and as usual, if she didn’t give him whatever it was, her own happiness and independence would be jeprodised. Cordell was looking at her, nervous and anxious—that was never a good sign; she knew that Mason used the other man as a sounding board for his crazed and angry rants, which meant he already knew what she had to face from her masculine half.  

Her brother was sat up in bed, his face exposed to the air, but mostly hidden in the shadows of the four-poster bed that was his. She had taken a seat at the bottom of the bed, sitting stiffly; it didn’t matter that Mason would never move on his own again—she was always prepared to run when she was near him.

“Margot,” he started, “I want to know who leaked that nasty little tidbit about the President and Will Graham playing detective. God knows the White House doesn’t like that kind of information getting out. There’s finally a weakness in the walls of Lecter’s castle and I have the money to make it into my weapon. I need to know who this mole is.”

She looked down at her knees and ran her thumb over the carefully ironed creases that she’d pressed in her trousers. “Mason, whomever it is, isn’t going to seek me out.”

“That’s not a very positive attitude,” he chided almost playfully.

“People who leak information don’t want to get caught and I’m so close to the president that I’d be among the last people who they’d want to tell.”

“Have you figured out why Hannibal wanted you for a bodyguard?”

“I’m just an agent to him.” 

“Margoooot,” he sang. “He asked for you specifically. He’s up to something and you _must_ see that. They don’t let dumb girls into the Secret Service. That’s what sororities are for…”

She’d wanted to join a sorority when she’d went to university, but she’d desperately needed to keep a low profile so her dreams had been carefully tucked away and forgotten. And of course she was aware that the President was up to something by having her close, but she’d simply guessed that it was in accordance to the old adage of ‘keep your enemies closer’; she wasn’t sure if he considered her an enemy, but he certainly didn’t see her as a friend. 

“If I start snooping around for whoever—“

“Don’t make excuses. And don’t ignore my questions. Why did Hannibal want you?”

“I don’t know,” she insisted again, because all her questioning of the matter just gave her a headache. 

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.” Her voice shook slightly.

“Use your brain, baby.” 

“Mason, I don’t know! He’s an odd man! I have a good record in the Service—“

“Doing bitch work! Not anything to earn watching the President himself!”

“Maybe he’s just trying to fuck with me!”

That was the wrong thing to say and she knew it immediately. Mason was quick to jump on her wording and quickly said, “Did you tell him you’re only interested in pussy? Or do you think he already knows?”His face couldn’t form a smile, but she knew it was there. “Maybe he wants you for the darling Miss Abigail. Do you think he’d watch? I bet he’d love to watch the two of you put on a show—“

“I don’t want to hear about the First Lady, Mason!” she said quickly, cutting him off. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t think about her,” he sneered.

Disgust filled her entirely; she would never be able to think about a child sexually after everything her brother had done to her. “I don’t! She’s not even remotely my type.”

He let out an annoyed groan. “Oh god, don’t tell me you’d rather fuck the Vice President.”

“Mason!” She was angry and she was pleading, the exact state she hated to be in when she was with him. 

“Well, whatever he wants from you, you’d better give it to him. And I don’t care if it’s bending over that stupid desk of his and taking it up the ass like a good girl—you’ll do it and you’ll like it,” he snapped.

She almost managed to point her glare at him, though it ended up mostly directed at the lamp on his nightstand. “And _then_ what?”

“And then you better come back to me with all of it recorded.”

As if his plan wasn’t shit enough, now he was suggesting actual blackmail? “Oh god…”

He was gritting his teeth. “I’m not kidding, Margot.”

“I’m not going to try to blackmail him. Do you understand that there are dozens of safeguards against that in the first place? No Secret Service agent has ever tried to double-cross the President or Secret Service or—“ she was stumbling over her words at this point and it was frustrating. “We just don’t do it, Mason! We all take this job seriously and it goes against everything we believe in.” That earned a bored sigh from her brother, but she continued. “I don’t even know where I’d begin. Everything is monitored so carefully and with Kade Purnell breathing down everyone’s neck right now because of Agent Zeller, there’s no way I’d even be able to get in the door with the intention of blackmailing! And they sure as hell wouldn’t let me away with anything that could be used against Lecter.”

“Leave Agent Purnell to me.”

Her hands gripped at her knees and she fought to jump up so she’d be taller as she confronted him. “Mason—“

“I am _telling_ you to do this. This isn’t an _option_.” Now she could hear the seething hate in his voice and she nearly flinched. “I need this information and now. I have spent too long not getting anything done and it sickens me.”

“Why can’t we just form another Super PAC? Last year—“

“Last year was a goddamn joke!” he spat. “No one could find anything on Lecter that would stick and nothing that might distract him—the money was fucking wasted the moment that idiot Mormon started talking about the 47% and Mother Jones posted it to the internet. Lecter didn’t even need Graham to win with the way Chilton and Romney kept getting their fingers in everything.” 

Cordell fidgeted slightly in his seat as her brother’s heart rate monitor changed with the elevated blood pressure of Mason’s anger.

“Oh, get your panties out of your twat, Cordell. I’m not going to have a heart attack just because I’m a little mad.” Mason’s eyes returned to her, continuing their conversation. “And then their campaign started showing those Jeep commercials…it was a solid clusterfuck. I should have been completely in charge of everything for the amount of money I invested, but no one wanted to listen to me. Just like they didn’t when I woke up from that coma! Nobody listened to me! They all called me insane and fixated!” He was practically foaming at the mouth, a rabid creature that only cared about himself. “Hannibal Lecter and that little _bitch_ are sitting in the White House right now and I’m trapped here in this house, in this body. Don’t you fucking deny me this, Margot! I deserve to crush _everything_ they have.”

Margot closed her eyes and determined to outplay Mason on this one, she nodded her head. 

*****

Abigail sat and eagerly awaited Will to walk into the lecture hall; she was wearing what she was sure was Will’s favourite of her outfits—burgundy sweater and the only pair of jeans she’d ever owned, the ones she’d worn when they’d gone fishing together. The sweater was mostly a guess, but the outfit was casual and she was aware it was something he liked her to indulge in, like he wanted her to be given a taste of what it was like to live a normal life, if just for a few minutes. There were still students who stared at her and she simply pretended they weren’t there, which wasn’t very hard considering it wasn’t as though they mattered to her in the first place. 

“Don’t you just love getting to come to class?” she whispered to Barney, hardly able to contain her enthusiasm. 

“Free university classes are an unexpected perk of the job,” he murmured back, a teasing smile on his lips.

Will entered the room with a hard walk, Professor Foster following him; he was still favouring his shoulder and Abigail hoped that he was using it properly so that he wouldn’t suffer another strain.

“We’ll be co-lecturing today,” Will announced as the room quieted for him..  

Abigail watched the two professors curiously, studying the way they were uncoordinated in dimming the lights and syncing up the computer to the projector. On the large screen, bold red words appeared. 

POLITICIANS AND DECEPTION TECHNIQUES

Abigail couldn’t hide the smile appearing on her lips as she typed this wonderful headline on the top of her day’s notes. Will was angry and trying to take a jab at her publicly without actually confronting her. Maybe he was trying to make her feel guilty or uncomfortable, maybe he couldn’t face her alone, which was why Foster was assisting. 

“Politicians have two tactics: trapping and baiting. ‘Trapping’ is where they cause a voter to feel that this is the lesser of two evils to vote for, usually by smear campaigns against their opponents. ‘Baiting’ or ‘luring’ is done by promises—you wouldn’t believe what politicians are willing to use as a lure.”

It took every ounce of will not to squirm in her seat and reveal her discomfort. Well, this wasn’t fair. She could hear her father’s voice asking, _‘Are you a lure, Abigail?’_ and she tucked it away as Professor Foster began to talk, her lilting voice speaking about Jeep commercials and misdirecting the average citizen. She wanted to hear what Will thought about other people, not about what he saw as betrayals that she and her father had committed against him and the American people. The main problem with today’s lecture was that everyone loved hearing about what made others bad and that there was a high likelihood Will Graham had stories better than most people. 

“You would be absolutely disgusted with the things politicians do to get a voter,” he stated as he took over from Professor Foster.

Abigail could feel the tension in the room and how there were students starting to pick up on the subconscious cues to consider her as part of that group. She needed to redirect this situation.

“Like Mason Verger?” she asked out loud, loving how her voice pierced the silence.

Will stared at her and for a moment she felt as though they were finally existing on the same wavelength; then he glanced away, his anger thinly veiled. She was certain that to others it would look like annoyance. “Yes, First Lady. Like Mason Verger. I would appreciate no interruptions, though.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” she promised like a good girl. 

Perfect, she’d completely thrown him off track and now he’d be forced to deal with his largest public failure as apposed to the private matter that still was causing him distress. And honestly, if there was a choice about pointing out the faults in a politician, surely Mason Verger would be the obvious pick. Her fingers twitched on her keyboard and she scooted forward in her seat, eager at the distress he was showing; she took no pleasure in his suffering, but she was excited to hear him talk about the one event that made her stomach twist into knots and her breath catch in her throat. Mason was hers and would always be hers, a fantasy of blood and unending pain, and to have someone she loved talking about him…

As Will began to speak in halted and clearly upset tones about Verger, Abigail dutifully kept her eyes on her computer screen as she typed out what he said as close as she could, word for word. She didn’t allow herself to smile or interject that Mason had offered her chocolate once upon a time, that he’d been desperately lonely for a playmate and thought he’d found it in her father, that he’d bled everywhere. The other students seemed an equal mixture of horrified and enthralled that Will was talking about Mason; even Foster seemed at a loss when it came to talking about how Verger had blackmailed and paid off the families of his victims while he was still in office. Slippery little facts about the corruption in Verger’s office peppered his lecture, reminding everyone that this villain had hidden in plain sight while everyone smiled and patted him on the back; there was so much bitterness in Will’s tone that she was seriously entertaining the thought of dragging him to the Verger estate just so that they could peel off what remained of the flesh on Mason’s face—that would make Will feel better, right? 

Class ended without fanfare and she waited until the room cleared before making her move to Will; she motioned for her agents to leave, though Barney reminded her quietly that she couldn’t be alone with Will, Agent Purnell’s orders. Professor Foster had left to answer student questions in the halls and Barney gave a respectful distance so that she and Will could talk in private. Will was ignoring her as she walked up to him, muttering to himself as he shut down his laptop. Abigail wanted to assuage his anger and discomfort by reminding him that he was only human, that flaws could be expected and he still had worth despite of them.

“You know, Mason had everyone fooled. It’s not your fault you didn’t know,” she told him gently; if she’d not been shown what Mason was, she’d never have seen it either.

Will looked up at her, furious. “You have no idea what it’s like to put a dangerous person in a position of power, where they become untouchable.”

“I don’t?” She kept her expression neutral because there was no point in making him feel worse. She’d helped her father just as much as he had, after all. Before he could react to her, she changed the subject, wanting to be his daughter again instead of his enemy. “I thought maybe we could get lunch? There’s chili fries in the cafeteria.”

She barely had time to offer him a hopeful smile before he was reprimanding her. “Your dad doesn’t want you eating those.”

She hated that he was right and bristled slightly. “You know I would just take a shower once I got home. It’s not a big deal.” But she wasn’t going to back down. Pulling something out of her side satchel, she held it out to him. “I brought you a book I thought you might like. We’re downsizing one of the libraries and I grabbed this before it could be donated.”

“I’m not allowed to accept presents from students.”

She regarded him cooly and then retracted her gift. “Fine, then I’ll have my office send it over. The Presidential institution’s not a student.” After a few seconds it was obvious he wasn’t going to respond to her tone and she dropped the stony façade for vulnerability. “Please talk to me.”

“I’m busy.”

While she’d never admit it, her heart was breaking. “Why are you making me beg?”

“Making you? I’m not making you do anything, Abigail. Remember? Only your dad can tell you what to do?” he reminded, his voice nasty and biting.

It was cruel that he’d make her feel like she was to blame for this. “I wasn’t bait.”

“Your dad dangled you in front of me to lure me in. He saw that I…” Will’s hands gripped his papers hard before stuffing them into his briefcase. “and he let me pretend that I could be a father, too.”

“You were pretending to be a father? Or you think you were pretending?”

“Don’t psychoanalyse me.”

This was exasperating. “Look, you’re still part of my life. You’re still my dad.”

He threw his hands down on the desk. “Stop it! I’m _not_.” 

She didn’t allow herself to flinch, not wanting Barney to come over and break up their conversation. She took a small step closer. “Can—can we just talk to one another respectfully? I’m trying to understand how you feel and…” she trailed off as he ignored her. “And you don’t care. Can’t you tell that I’m not lying?”

“You’ve both made it very hard for me to trust my instincts.”

“Well, I’m not lying.” She fought her irritation that he wouldn’t just _listen_ to what she was trying to say. 

“You’ve both lied to me, manipulated me, made me accessory to murder on multiple occasions, and I’ve lost all sense of north on my moral compass. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get back what you’ve broken.” His voice was a heated whisper, still protecting her from others learning the truth. 

She was eager to get their family back to the way it had been. “Let me fix it then.”

Perhaps her tone was little too demanding, because Will was quick to snap at her. “You’re just an overprivileged brat.”

“I’m not a brat,” she contested hotly; that was an accusation that she found both overused and inaccurate—brats were horrid children that didn’t obey their parents and spent too much money on candy and toys. She did neither. She deserved to be loved. She deserved Will. “That’s so _cheap_ and you know it.”

“Professor Foster, perhaps you can answer the rest of the First Lady’s questions,” Will announced hastily as he grabbed his still unpacked papers into his arms and brusquely walked past her. 

Abigail realised a moment too late that someone had walked into the room and she spun around, thankful that the now approaching woman had been too far away to hear anything or see that they’d been fighting. Abigail’s face immediately morphed into the pleasant and gracious expression she wore around the White House and threw out her hand to the other woman. 

“Hi! I’m Abigail Lecter—it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

*****

It was too early for dinner and Hannibal wanted a distraction, choosing to seek it in his daughter’s company; he was informed she was in the residence’s private gym and joined her after leaving the Oval Office for the day. She was on the rowing machine and her skin had the ruddy glow of movement; it was one of the rare times she wore lycras, these being flat navy that bore the Secret Service’s insignia. They’d been given to her by Agent Katz not long after Clarice had been killed, a gift meant to distract from death.

Abigail’s back and shoulders had sleek muscles built from years of rowing on the crew team in Sidwell Friends, honed for a higher calling by the hauling of bodies. He’d expected them to soften from lack of use since the inauguration, but they were still as finely crafted as ever, which made him feel oddly proud. They’d spent years crafting her into the lovely creature she was today and knowing she’d keep care of what he’d gifted her was comforting.

“Abigail, you’re going to strain your shoulders.” 

Her cheeks were red and her scalp held a sheen of sweat as she continued working the machine. “No. I’ve neglected these muscles—they need to be pushed.”  

He was quiet for a moment, listening to the steady pattern of her breath and watching her disciplined movements before asking, “How was class?”

“It went well.” 

He could tell she was lying, but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he pressed his shoe into the small of her back, forcing her to sit up straighter; her face showed little discomfort in the mirror and he pressed a bit higher to insist on an unnecessarily high standard of posture. But it made her look so beautiful and he smiled at her reflection; dutifully she smiled back, rising to the occasion by maintaining what he’d asked of her. 

*****

Will stepped out of the feed store with the first of three bales of hay he’d just bought. The evening air was brisk, truly showing that autumn was on the way and he shifted the hay to favour his injured shoulder.

“I can carry that for you, Mr Graham.” Matthew was at his side—as always—and Will smiled at the enthusiasm.

“No, you’re not allowed to restrict your hands. He can help me.” He nodded his head back to the store hand who was carrying the other two bales.

“If you’re sure.”

Will said nothing more, simply loaded the hay into the back of the Secret Service vehicle. During the colder months, he had made a habit of creating shelters for animals that might be abandoned or displaced, spreading them at various locations along his route to Washington DC; the hay was used to create insulation and disposable bedding and he knew he should stock up on he materials now before any snow storm caused a rush amongst any livestock owners in the area. And he was actually hoping to get his agent interested in helping him make the cold weather shelters; Matthew was not only a innovative man, but he was also something close to a friend at this point in Will’s life. It would be nice to do a chore with someone who might appreciate what he was doing. 

“Thanks for the ride,” he said when he got in the front seat and Matthew got in the driver’s side. 

Matthew gave him a quick smile. “Of course. Want to get some Burger King?”

“Yeah.” That actually sounded good, considering food had become such an uncomfortable subject to him as of late. “Yeah, let’s get some Burger King and we can eat it in the parking lot.”

“Okay, let me call it in.” “Mongoose not en route to headquarters.” Will cringed slightly at the code name. It had been a fond joke that the President had given him originally, but now he was just the creature that lost to a cobra. “He wants fast food. We’ll be about…” He turned to look at Will, who mouthed out ‘forty minutes’. “Forty minutes.”

Matthew made small talk as they waited in the drive through and then insisted that he pay for the food, which Will insisted he’d pay back; after finding an empty section of the parking lot, they pulled out their order and began to eat. They’d been to the shooting range after his classes for about an hour before heading back to Wolf Trap and Will’s shoulder had been thoroughly exhausted from recoil and Matthew’s constant readjustments to his posturing. 

Will glanced at Matthew with a little more apprehension; Will had never really understood what people saw in him when they felt attraction and he would have had to be unconscious to not notice how the other man’s hands had lingered at inopportune times during the practice. Over the past few weeks, Matthew’s advances weren’t subtle and they were frequent enough for Will to recognise that they were attempted flirtations. Will wasn’t sure what he’d done to earn Matthew’s attraction nor did he really know how to politely say, _‘President Lecter is really the only man I’ve ever been interested in.’_ Which was true—Will liked women exclusively and the thought of having sex with Matthew didn’t seem particularly appealing. It was just the complexity of Hannibal that had been so _right_ that had made anything with him seem like an exotic luxury and not something he’d spent a life time being told was wrong.

Besides, he’d already felt guilt and anxiety over the drunk kisses with Molly Foster—if Hannibal knew he’d done that, he could only imagine the repercussions she’d face from his wrath. Will could only imagine what Hannibal would do if he allowed his agent into his bed.

“I’m sorry Agent Purnell accused you of being an alcoholic. I have—it’s the reports. There’s only so much I can leave out before it would contradict the other agents.”

So Matthew was trying to protect him, shelter him from whatever he thought might be harmful to Will’s ego. Hannibal hadn’t tried to protect him from things, simply tried to close off the world’s access to him. He wasn’t sure what he disliked more. 

“She’s just doing her job.” Will wasn’t going to deny the fact he had a drinking problem. 

The agent held out another packet of Heinz he’d removed from the paper bag. “More ketchup?”

Will still hadn’t touched much of his fries, but could tell the question had been mostly rhetorical. “Thanks.”

Matthew squeezed out the ketchup on the edge of the burger wrapper Will had been using for his french fries, then quickly licked off the bit that had ended up on his thumb before dipping one of his onion rings into it. The onion ring was then crammed into his mouth and he gave an apologetic smile; after months of carefully measured bites while dining with the President, it was strange to see someone who was willing to stuff their face with cheap food. 

“I had to put it in my daily reports that you’ve been drinking because that’s what the other agents are writing. I’m sorry.” 

Matthew was apologising again and Will quickly placed his attention on his hamburger. He looked down at the grease on the meat and wondered if ground and cooked human created the same brown mess on fast food wrappers; swallowing hard, he wrapped the burger back up and slipped it in the bag. Matthew would probably eat it later, so at least it wouldn’t go to waste. 

And the agent was staring at him, concerned. “We can order a chicken sandwich next time if you don’t like burgers. Or their fish sandwich. I know you like fish.”

“No, I’m just…it’s hard to keep an appetite.”

Matthew didn’t look convinced at all and offered over his onion rings without another word. Will accepted them without argument; he didn’t need ‘starving himself’ added to the reports the Secret Service was writing about him. They stopped talking at that point and focused on the food instead, which was its own small hell; Will wasn’t enjoying the food he had and while some of it had to do with the fear of accidentally consuming human flesh again, it also had to do with the level of chemicals and processing in what he had been eating lately. 

“You know, if you break up with him, I won’t be able to spend the entire day with you anymore.” Matthew’s lips twisted into that small smile he’d come to expect anytime he was telling a joke, but Will could feel the desperation and pretended not to notice it. 

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re just dying to spend all your time with someone who drinks too much and complains about the political state of the nation,” Will said as he considered eating one of the onion rings. 

“There’s more to you than that.” Matthew stuffed what was left of his burger into his mouth; Will could recognise another former hungry child and tried not to dwell on that mindset of being young and starving. But the other man was quick to break the moment with a question as he wiped ketchup off the corners of his mouth. “Want to go to the shooting range again tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that would be great.” Will was actually enjoying target practice, so long as they didn’t use human silhouettes. He honestly didn’t know if he’d feel comfortable shooting another person, didn’t know if he could pull the trigger. Not even to stop Hannibal, which sent a bitter stab through him. “And I _am_ broken up with him.”

“Well, he didn’t get the memo, then,” Matthew pointed out.

Will sighed. “Lecters don’t understand the word ‘no’.”

And as he looked at the agent out of the side of his eyes, Will was starting to suspect that Matthew wasn’t the type of person to take ‘no’ for an answer either. 

*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary of Terms (as lifted from Wikipedia)
> 
> +Super PAC: In the United States, a political action committee (PAC) is a type of organization that pools campaign contributions from members and donates those funds to campaign for or against candidates, ballot initiatives, or legislation.At the federal level, an organization becomes a PAC when it receives or spends more than $1,000 for the purpose of influencing a federal election, according to the Federal Election Campaign Act. Super PACs, officially known as "independent-expenditure only committees," may not make contributions to candidate campaigns or parties, but may engage in unlimited political spending independently of the campaigns. Unlike traditional PACs, they can raise funds from individuals, corporations, unions, and other groups without any legal limit on donation size.
> 
> +47% Remark: “There are 47 percent of the people who will vote for the president no matter what. All right, there are 47 percent who are with him, who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it. That's an entitlement. The government should give it to them. And they will vote for this president no matter what…My job is not to worry about those people. I'll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives.” —Mitt Romney at the private fundraiser of May 17, 2012
> 
> +Mother Jones: an American magazine featuring investigative and breaking news reporting on politics, the environment, human rights, and culture. 
> 
> +Romney Jeep Commercials: on Oct 27, Romney began airing a television ad in Ohio that said, "Obama took GM and Chrysler into bankruptcy, and sold Chrysler to Italians who are going to build Jeeps in China." Chrysler's CEO Sergio Marchionne responded, saying that the claim that production of Jeeps would be transferred from the U.S. to China, leaving U.S. factories idle, was completely false. He also said that not only would Jeep production lines remain in operation in the U.S. but Chrysler would be investing $500 million to expand production at the Toledo, Ohio Jeep plant. In spite of the denials by the auto manufacturer, the Romney campaign subsequently began airing a new radio ad in Ohio that repeated the false claim that Jeep would be cutting Ohio jobs in order to expand into China.
> 
>  
> 
> ***If you're in the US, remember that midterm elections are in November! You still have time to register to vote if you haven't already. Get to know your local issues--you can be part of the change your community wishes to see!***


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Kade had already had two people snigger at her skirt suit, which was admittedly an unusually bright persimmon, but it was new and she’d thought it looked very flattering on her in the dressing room, so now she was conflicted about whether or not it actually it was a good purchase. Not that she was letting her inner conflict show in her expression or body language—she didn’t need any weaknesses in her armour showing to a building of people who considered her the enemy.

It was early in the morning, a few staffers populating the Vice President’s staff office—‘The Beehive,’ she thought with a small smirk. She imagined that Du Maurier liked the little nickname and wondered if the President still called her ‘Bee’ from time to time. While she certainly had a lower opinion of the President, Kade was willing to concede that she appreciated the fact he was loving family to the nation’s second in command. God knew how many administrations she’d been through to see how many presidents secretly despised their Vice President, relegating them to menial positions that were mostly for the sake of show. At least Lecter gave his powerful and intelligent cousin a generous level of influence in their shared administration.

The Vice President’s assistant’s desk was strategically placed in front of her office door, making it almost impossible for someone Ms Bloom didn’t approve of to get in to see her boss; naturally, there were two agents stationed by the door, but it was obvious that Ms Bloom held the real power in the matter. 

“I’m expected for a meeting,” she said simply and Ms Bloom nodded, moving her chair aside so Kade could slip past her. 

The Vice President sat at a small table set beside her desk, one leg crossed over the other as she read the daily newspaper. It seemed as though she’d encountered the woman during her breakfast, as there was food on the little table as well as a pot of tea. When Du Maurier glanced up at her, Kade felt her stomach do a flip. 

“Vice President Du Maurier.”

“Agent Purnell, how are you this morning? Would you like to join me?” She gestured to the empty seat across from her.

“Thank you.” Kade took her seat and watched the other woman with rapt attention.

“I understand you’re ready to end your investigation.”

“I am.”

The Vice President returned her attention back to her newspaper, snapping the paper with a crisp sound as her eyes scanned over an article. Kade thought better than to say anything and looked at the food on the table between them. Fresh fruit, dry wheat toast, an herbed cream cheese, and thick slices of lox all looked fairly enticing to her, considering she’d given up her paleo-diet last week; taking the empty salad plate she assumed had been set for her to use, she selected cantaloupe slices and strawberries along with two slices of the toast. As she spread the cream cheese across its raspy surface, the Vice President spoke once more.

“Will I like the results?”

“I can only hope.” Kade took a fork and lifted a piece of lox onto the toast. “I’m not satisfied.”

The other woman looked up from the paper, smiling. “Women like us are rarely satisfied.”

Forcing back a sigh at the way even the Vice President was refusing to offer assistance with substance, she was blunt in the politest tone she could manage. “I still need more information.”

“Tea?” Du Maurier asked apathetically. 

“No, thank you.” Kade dismissed the teacup by her place setting. “I’m sorry that I have to drag the President’s significant other into this. It’s obviously embarrassing for him and for your cousin, and I’d never want to put anyone in that position simply for the sake of getting a job done, but…this is about more than their emotional well being. The ripple effects of what has happened are already causing massive change in how agents are trained and the way reports are handled internally. We have the eyes of the world watching us—the best security task force with internal problems?” She shook her head slightly. “It’s become a nightmare. And I have no one assisting me…”

The Vice President was still reading her paper; with anyone else, she would consider the act disrespectful, but this was simply the other woman’s way of saying that Kade was allowed to vent, but not to expect any commiseration. Kade was certain that Du Maurier was listening intently and internally responding, but this way felt a little less like girlfriends gossiping and a little more like unloading on a psychiatrist. Kade could work out the answers she needed on her own—it was just good to say her problems aloud. The Vice President turned the page of the newspaper and Kade took a closer look at a small photo on the cover, which showed Graham and Lecter way back in March, when the White House had unveiled the new gardens. Even with the shitty photograph that was obviously the crop of something that had been taken from a distance, she could see the sour expression on Graham’s face, Lecter with his usual placid look. She couldn’t pair two more ill-matched people if she’d _tried_. 

“Are they serious?” It was important to know, not because she planned on weighing the outcome in favour of the President’s satisfaction, but because she needed to know how the structure of the President’s personal agents would be arranged if Graham was a regular feature. 

“Who knows.” At this, Du Maurier closed the newspaper and set it on her desk top. “My cousin’s taste is almost always flawless. I must admit that his deep interest in Mr Graham is an unexpected and unpleasant hitch in my plans, but it exists in this moment and therefore can’t be disregarded as much as I wish it could be. And while Hannibal is capable of convincing anyone of anything, very rarely does he give up motives for his actions, Mr Graham included. I don’t ever expect to understand why he wants that man to be such an integral part of his life.”

Kade digested that information as she ate her toast and lox. Once she had finished, the other woman pushed the edge of the saucer her teacup rested on towards Kade, a silent order to have more tea poured. Doing as she was asked, Kade decided to make one last ditch effort to make it known how big of an inconvenience this entire matter had become. 

“I’m putting my investigation of Clarice Starling’s death and Agent Lass’ disappearance on hold for your cousin. Tell me why I shouldn’t make his life difficult for making mine hell for the past month.”

The Vice President raised an eyebrow. “Are you threatening us?”

“Not yet.”

Where others would become defensive and insecure at her words, there was now a slight tinge of pink to the Vice President’s cheeks. “You are such a highlight to my day. Whatever did I do to get so lucky?”

Kade smirked and picked up a cube of sugar with the silver tongs sitting across the lip of the bowl. “Sugar?”

The Vice President held out her teacup. “Please.” As Kade dropped the sugar in and then retrieved a small spoon, Du Maurier continued. “Mr Graham is nothing more than a fleeting hobby. I proposed the idea of their union as…” She gave a small grimace. “ _assistance_. Someone to act as Hannibal when Abigail needs a father to talk to, someone to act as a ready and willing distraction when Hannibal needed to cool his temper.”

It sounded so simple and logical, a cold and clinical evaluation of a situation and Kade wondered if the Vice President really understood how strange it sounded. “A stand-in.” 

“And they unfortunately…made it personal. Soon, Hannibal will tire of Mr Graham’s uncouth manner and Abigail will see that he’s not capable of more than caring for dogs. They’ll drop him. But for now, he’s the thorn in our sides.”

The Vice President stirred the tea slowly, no doubt contemplating. Kade thought it sounded so detached and yet so wonderful for someone to want to do that for another. This wasn’t the action of a politician looking to keep their colleague’s secret life under wraps—this was an act of love to give a dear one something that Du Maurier was unable to provide. Granted, life would be easier if Lecter had picked Clarice Starling and not Will Graham as his sidefuck, but life was never easy. And it was still incredibly fucking callous of the Vice President to assume that Graham and the Lecters wouldn’t develop real emotions towards one another, but Du Maurier was such a practical woman, a quiet glacier that no one could ever hope to cross or truly know.

“Do you like your diamonds classic, Agent Purnell?” the other woman asked, breaking her from her thoughts.

It took milliseconds for Kade to remember she’d put on her tennis bracelet that morning and glanced down at it. “I do.”

“You don’t like the nonsense of ‘chocolate’ or ‘canary’.”

Kade smiled. “No, ma’am.”

“I can appreciate that. A wrist looks so much better with diamonds.” Du Maurier began to select small plum halves to put onto her plate. “Please let me know what your report finds, won’t you, Agent Purnell?”

“You’ll be the first person I inform.” Kade stood from the table, beginning to excuse herself from the office. 

“And Agent Purnell?”

Kade turned back around to look at the Vice President, expecting some sort of reprimand for how forward she’d been earlier. “Yes?”

The Vice President made a very obvious show of raking her eyes down and then back up Kade’s body, giving her a wink before saying in the most shameless tone,

“ _Love_ the suit.”

*****

A major portion of her father’s 2012 campaign platform had been built around the recognition that after the 2008 crash of the economy, many were still struggling to put food on the table. Dairy products had become more expensive as had meat, and the usage of food assistance programmes was at an all time high, while the majority of food banks were nearly empty. Raised with the understanding that she was to be grateful for everything she had at the dinner table, she took the ‘FEED AMERICA’ aspect of her father’s political agenda very seriously. 

At the beginning of the year, the White House’s media department had proposed to create a series of web videos in which simple meals would be made that would fit the budgets of people with lower incomes, while still remaining nutritious. From the beginning she was picked to host the videos; her father was the natural pick for anything involving cooking, but as First Lady, she was the one expected to perform the more ‘domestic’ tasks for the public’s eye. It wasn’t a burden to perform this new role, but she knew that compared to her father’s abilities, her skills in the kitchen were amateur at best and she didn’t want to embarrass herself when he watched the videos later. Sure, she cook well enough, but she had no flair or ease the way he did. At least she was still able to impress the average person, she thought to herself. 

As she prepared for a day of filming, she tried to keep herself focused on the importance of keeping her actions precise and that she needed to smile while doing it. At the moment, she was sitting in a chair before a portable makeup station, listening to her chief of staff discuss absolutely boring things, like how many Christmas trees would be needed for the White House’s upcoming holiday season, and if she was certain that she didn’t want to wear a costume for Halloween, because ‘there’s still time for me to get something for you’. Nothing that they were saying was a big deal for others to hear, so she was surprised that as she having her hair taken care of, that Mrs Madchen would bring up the most controversial topic in her office. 

“Abigail, I wanted to talk to you about alternatives for your birthday.”

Her hair had been fussed with for a ridiculous amount of time until it was finally clipped back at both sides—every other hair style either made her look young or it was too formal to cook canned vegetables in. As a faux tortoise shell barrette was clipped behind her left ear, she raised an eyebrow and looked at her chief of staff in the mirror’s reflection, then waved her hair stylist away for privacy.

“Alternatives?”

Mrs Madchen lowered her voice. “Instead of the _mental hospital_.”

“I’m going and that’s final. I’m going to make a speech about it, remember?” She was attempting to remain calm as she considered the constant questioning insulting.

“I know you want to, but—“

“I want to and so I am going to.” She turned around and faced her Chief of Staff, giving her an enthusiastic smile. “Do you think this turtleneck looks nice?”

Mrs Madchen returned the look encouragingly. “You look cute. But I don’t want this to cause a reaction—“

“No,” Abigail said firmly, still smiling. “I am going to go to the hospital and I’m going to serve lunch and get a tour and then I’m going to visit for at least an hour with my Uncle Abel.”

“I’m not comfortable going,” was Mrs Madchen’s gentle reply.

Abigail kept her tone careful, knowing that causing offense to her senior staffer would not be in her best interest. “Then take that day off.”

Now the older woman looked pained. “I’m not comfortable with you going, either. I would never let Georgia go. And I don’t want you to go.”

“I’ll be safe. I’m going to have the Secret Service with me. And the patients in there make up such a small demographic of the people who have mental health issues. I’m not going to treat them like lepers.” Abigail studied herself in the mirror. “I think I look nice.”

“You do.” Mrs Madchen looked as though she was trying to humble herself. “I’m still concerned.”

Sometimes she forgot that others were not capable of seeing a larger picture and that they couldn’t protect themselves, which resulted in them projecting their insecurities onto other such as what was happening now. “I appreciate your concern, but you have nothing to worry about. And I’m not as naive as you think. I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope so. I worry about you.”

Ugh, _pity_ —she didn’t need it and wasn’t even going to justify it with a response. Hopping out of the chair, she said blandly,

“Well, I should really get this filming out of the way.” 

Mrs Madchen smiled but it was obvious that the conversation wasn’t over for her. “Right. Break a leg.”

Abigail waltzed out into the filming space, smiling and commanding everyone’s attention. While she still found many of her tasks as First Lady very boring, she was very excited to be part of the fledgling project the White House had created at the prompting of the media outreach department. A mock kitchen had been created in the dining room on the first floor of the Residence, a room they’d only used once since moving in; there was a faux granite counter top, gas range hooked up to a small propane tank hidden behind the base cabinet façade. An assortment of ingredients had been arranged on the countertop and she tried not to grimace at the thought of that they would make.

A chicken noodle casserole, just like the one Will had cooked for she and her father; it had tasted terrible, but she’d made sure to ask for seconds so that Will would know his effort had been appreciated. And so she’d felt it was a fitting tribute to him that she cook it for the videos; he’d see it and he’d know she hadn’t forgotten. Though maybe by the time it was uploaded to the White House Youtube channel, their relationship would be healed.

Today they’d be filming five different episodes, all centred around themes of nutrition, affordability, and the ease of preparation. The chef accompanying her was someone who had her own cooking show, but Abigail didn’t truly recognise; all smiles, the woman greeted her with the obnoxious enthusiasm that caused her to shut down and revert to the quiet and prim elegance her father exuded. She shook hands and offered a few polite minutes of conversation before turning her attention to the director so she would know what exactly was expected of her performance today. 

Will had briefly touched upon the project one morning over breakfast in July, giving her his suggestions on hosting the videos: _‘Sunny and friendly was the working description. Remember not to look as though you come from a place of privilege—look ‘Mall of America’.’_ But Will wasn’t here in the White House and she felt the small twinge of ache knowing he wasn’t going to be at the table tonight to talk with her about what she’d accomplished. And while she was hopeful that her father would compliment her work, she wanted to see Will’s reaction to her work as First Lady; momentarily retreating to her mind palace as the director had the camera and lights adjusted, she searched for advice. In the foyer of her mind, her father dusted marble busts of Romulus and Remus that had been placed on a mantle; she came to stand beside him.

 _‘I don’t want to be here,’_ she admitted, wishing he’d take her away. 

 _‘Pretend Will is here,’_ her father replied, wiping a speck of dust away with his fingertip.

 _‘Where?’_ she replied feeling someone dusting extra banana powder on her cheeks as the lighting on her face was adjusted.

_‘Everywhere.’_

Oh, that sounded nice. She opened her eyes once more and glancing around the room, she pretended that Will was standing just out of her peripheral vision, watching approvingly. 

Will dwelling in her heart, she took her position behind the counter and turned to smile at her co-host. “I’m so happy you could join me today.”

*****

Hannibal was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office and Abigail’s personal assistant stood before him, holding her clipboard in both hands, her smile tilting a little more to the left than most’s would.“Hello, Mr President.”

Something interesting of the young Miss Madchen: Hannibal had noticed on numerous occasions that the woman would quickly study the details of the person before her before addressing them by their name. She never relied solely on the face, which had given him cause to suspect that perhaps Miss Madchen was unable to see them, which was _very_ interesting.

“Good afternoon, Georgia. Can I help you with something?” His tone was amicable, though he offered no facial expressions.

“Have…” She seemed embarrassed. “Have you seen Abigail?”

“Is she missing?” It was late in the day, close to the end of their work schedules. 

“She, uh…”

“Is shirking her duties,” Hannibal finished, standing from his desk.

Georgia lowered her eyes, fidgeting with her clipboard as he came around the side of the desk. “I know she has a lot on her mind. I don’t want to bother her if she’s busy with her own things. My mom hasn’t noticed yet and I don’t mind covering for her if she needs a few moments to herself.”

She looked up at him expectantly and he walked with her to his east office door. “Perhaps I can contact her and have her meet you back at her office.”

She gave him a relieved smile. “Thank you so much. But if she needs to be alone…”

He gave a small nod as he opened the door for her. “I’ll have her contact you.” 

Alone in his office, he turned towards the slender, disguised door on the other side of the Oval Office that led to the small hallway Will’s office was located on. He was already keenly aware that Agent Matthews was waiting the dining room he often took his lunch in, which meant Abigail was nearby, _which_ meant there was truly only one place she could be. Straightening his shirt cuffs, he didn’t knock before opening the door and as expected, his daughter was curled up in one of the armchairs. 

“Abigail,” he greeted softly as she turned to look at him.

“I wanted to be close to him.” She sounded so wounded. 

“My darling, you have work to do,” he reminded as he straightened already straightened papers still left in the ‘in’ box to his left. 

“Are you mad?”

He gave a small shake of his head. “Never. And he is your father—it’s natural you miss him. But his current absence must define our work ethic now—we shall not let it distract us from the little things.”

She nodded and stood from the armchair. “I should return to work.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise for this, but it will not happen again in the future, understood?”

“Yes.” And then she moved to stand at his front, her cheek resting on his shoulder as her arms wrapped around him. “I love you so much,” she murmured. Despite everything, she was still a child to him and lovingly, he wrapped his arms around her in turn.

“And I, you.”

*****

Will wasn’t really in the mood for entertaining anyone—he was in the mood to get shitfaced drunk and then sleep it off until dawn. But when Jack Crawford stood on his front porch, ‘no’ wasn’t really an option.

After Will stared at him for a good half minute without saying anything, Jack finally asked, “Are you going to let me in?”

Jack dismissed the agent that had come to relieve Matthew for the night as Will led him into the kitchen were the could sit at the table. Scotch was retrieved and Jack poured them two glasses.

“I know you’re angry with him. But it would be great if you came back.”

Will tapped the base of his glass on the table, saying nothing and simply staring. 

“Hannibal and Abigail need you. You make them better people.”

“I don’t do anything good for them.”

“I like them better when you’re part of their lives.” Jack’s smile took a hard edge as he locked eyes with Will. “Don’t do that mind reading on me.”

Will glared, mostly at Jack’s hairline. “That’s not how my empathy works.”

There was a pause between them and Jack sipped at the scotch, shrugging slightly at the flavour. “You know, Bella wants me to invite you over for dinner. She misses your presence, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure she does,” he muttered.

“Quit acting like that.” Jack scolded. “Hannibal—no matter what you think about him—genuinely misses you. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. It’s not some performance, if that’s what you think.”

“It’s the reasons why he misses me that make me upset.” 

Jack finished the scotch in one swallow and gave an exasperated sigh. “Look, Hannibal isn’t ever going to find someone else. You’re the only one he’ll ever want.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

Jack drew his lips in a thin line. “I look out for my clients’ best interests and you are the best thing to happen to his life. Tied with Abigail.”

“I am a triumph for him, a hunting trophy.” Will amended the sentence to add, “So is she.”

“Don’t—don’t make this sound like some sort of—“ Jack slammed his hand down on the table. “Damnit, Will.”

“You want me back with him so that he’ll be happy, just say it. This is about him. _Everything_ is about _him_ ,” Will said bitterly. 

“Tell me how he can make it up to you. There is nothing too excessive or ridiculous you can ask for.” Jack’s smile looked friendly, but Will picked up on the desperate edge. “I’ll—I’ll have him buy you the goddamned Honey Fitz from auction and you can both spend a year sailing in it while he leads the nation from the captain’s deck. I’ll have him bring back all the dogs you gave away and you can bring them to work with you. I’ll have him create any piece of legislation you want and have him sign it, executive action. Anything you want.”

“You’d do anything to make Hannibal happy, wouldn’t you?” Will knew the question was rhetorical. “I can’t trust anyone who thinks that way.”

Jack actually looked hurt by this. “Will, I’m your friend.”

“Are you?”

“I think about what’s in your best interests, too.” Jack poured himself a finger more of scotch. “Like right now. You’re not happy like this. Without him. Abigail.”

“People can live without love, not water.” 

Jack rolled his eyes as he downed the alcohol. “At least think about it.”

“I have.”

The other man’s expression was filled with a lack of faith in Will’s conviction. “Your gut instinct tells that you should retreat to save yourself. Just remember, your gut’s been wrong before.”

“Fuck you,” Will snarled. 

And with that, Jack left the house, leaving Will to his misery.

*****

At the end of the week, Hannibal arrived with dinner, which was a falafel dish of some sort, and a large brown paper wrapped rectangle that could only be a framed painting. 

“I have a gift for you,” Hannibal informed him as one of the agents carried the artwork into the house.

For a split second, Will thought it might be that terribly amusing and vulgar Leda and the Swan painting, his hands clenching around the casserole dish that had he’d taken from the other man. He bit his lips and bought time by taking the food into the kitchen; the day he’d first seen Hannibal’s taste in art had been the same day he and Hannibal had progressed their relationship into the throes of something far more intimate. But when he returned to the living room where Hannibal stood patiently, his own curiosity got the better of him and he accepted the wrapped painting which had been passed back to the President, who in turn handed it off to Will. Removing the brown paper with care, he was surprised that he found the piece to look oddly familiar.

“Is this...a Van Gogh?”

Hannibal looked a little surprised at this, but definitely pleased. “Very good, Will. It's from my own private collection.”

“A favourite.” 

Hannibal gave a small nod as his fingertips rested against the heavy oak frame. “My uncle obtained it when I was fifteen and gifted it to me in his will. And now I leave it in your hands.”

Will studied it in silence for a moment, then said quietly, “I suppose I would be considered ungrateful if I didn't accept it. 

“Yes. You would.” 

Will nodded his head slowly. “Thank you, President Lecter.”

“It is called ‘Blossoming Pear Tree’. I believe this was a study he did before he created the identically named piece that now resides in the museum in Amsterdam,” Hannibal informed him pleasantly. 

“It’s…very nice.” Will felt fairly indifferent about the piece. 

“Where shall I hang it for you?”

“Oh, I’m sure you already have somewhere picked out.”

Hannibal’s lips quirked in an amused way. “Above the mantle.”

“Yes, that will look nice.” Will took a step backwards, handing the painting back to its former owner. “I’ll get hammers and a nail.”

“And a measuring tape, Will. I won’t hang this haphazardly,” Hannibal called after him as he made his way to the closet that acted as a catchall by the front door.

Will paused. “That’s how we did the one in your closet.” 

“I do not wish to argue, Will.”

Will left without another word, but did return with a measuring tape, a pencil, a nail, and a hammer; he handed them over to Hannibal, who had removed his coat and jacket. The small ephemera he’d had on the mantle had been moved off to rest on the adjoining bookcases and Hannibal had already folded up the brown paper that had been protecting the painting. Will retrieved a chair for Hannibal to stand on as he measured out the space in which the painting would be hung from, watching as the other man made a dainty tick mark on the wall where he’d drive the nail through. He expected some resistance in the wall as there was a brick chimney behind it, but by luck, Hannibal had managed to find a stud that braced up the dry wall that covered the brick. Will passed up the small frame and turned his attention to the agents in the room, who all looked bored as they shifted from one foot to the other and checked their cuticles for hangnails. 

As Hannibal stepped down from the chair, he brushed his sleeves of imaginary dust and dismissed the agents from the room; once they were alone, he said, “I have lived a lifetime without you. And I will be able to wait a lifetime to have you return to me.” 

Will gave humourless smile. “You really think you could wait a lifetime? Your greed and ego wouldn’t force you to demand more of me? You can hardly stay away from me now.”

“Oh, my sweet Will.”

“Don’t ‘sweet Will’ me,” Will said tartly, never in the mood to be patronised. 

Hannibal gestured a hand to the kitchen. “Let me sit with you while you have dinner. I’ve not had anything to eat, either.”

“Fine.”

Hannibal served their dinners, keeping his body to the side so that he wasn’t in Will’s line of sight of the food; Will watched, not because he thought Hannibal might do something to the food, but because there was morbid fascination that he _might_. When the plate was finally set before him, he didn’t touch it out of habit and watched Hannibal as he sat across the table from him.

Hannibal didn’t look at Will, simply cut into the carefully arranged plate of food, savouring the first few bites on his own, which was spellbinding in and of itself. 

“Take a bite, Will,” Hannibal ordered after the sixth bite and Will couldn’t deny that he was hungry, so he complied. “Your thoughts?”

“It’s fine,” Will admitted. “A bit crumbly. But good.”

“Then I am happy.” They ate for a few minutes in silence before Hannibal asked, “Would you like a beer with your dinner, Will?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal rose from the table and retrieved a bottle of Sam Adams that Will had purchased earlier in the week, then a glass from the cupboard; the glass was wiped clean with a dish towel before being set on the table and with a church key, removed the metal lid off the bottle. Hannibal poured the glass and then unexpectedly, dragged his hand over the top of Will’s head. Will paused in chewing his food as Hannibal spoke.

“Do you know how you smell, Will?”

He swallowed down the mouthful of falafel and then said drily, “Please enlighten me.”

“Your health is suffering. Too much alcohol, too much sodium. I can smell your encephalitis medication.” 

Will very nearly rolled his eyes. “So I don’t smell very appetising.”

“No.” Hannibal paused for a moment. “I worry about you.”

Will speared more of the falafel with his fork. “Isn’t that pity?”

“No. I don’t believe it is.”

“Hannibal, you can’t just waltz into my life with paintings, boats, and food—and a fucking cure for everything—and think I’ll accept it. What we had is dead now. You killed it.” Will’s shoulders slumped somewhat. “I can’t even blame Abigail, because she’s a victim, too.”

“I understand Jack came here with promises of anything your heart could ever desire so that you might return to me. And I know that you declined his offer.” Again his hand stroked Will’s head and he couldn’t help but lean slightly against the rewarding touch; he didn’t have to look at the other man to know that Hannibal was proud of Will for taking a stand against Jack, that he hadn’t expected any less from him. And then Hannibal was leaning down to kiss his temple. “Take your time. I will be waiting for you.”

Will watched as the President left the house, chewing his food slowly; he could live with the fact he smelt like he was dying—he could never live with the shame tainting his soul. 

*****///*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
>  
> 
> +Bedelia’s “Love the suit” line is from “Silence of the Lambs”, where Hannibal mocks Governor Ann Martin’s suit. 
> 
> +’Chocolate’ and ‘canary’ diamonds are simply names for brown and yellow diamonds. ‘Classic’ refers to plain, clear diamonds. 
> 
> +The Secret Service is actually going through a crisis right now for having lost a lot of credibility in the eyes of the public. 
> 
> +A tennis bracelet is a type of gemstone (often diamond) bracelet. 
> 
> +Banana powder is a yellow powder for neutralising and setting makeup, which also would neutralise any glare the camera would pick up. 
> 
> +A ‘church key’ is another word for a bottle opener.
> 
> +”Blossoming Pear Tree” by Van Gogh is a real painting. It’s part of the “flowering Orchards” studies he did and a few of the other paintings in the series had various versions of them made, so it’s not a far stretch to think that Hannibal would own one of the paintings in the private collections.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

It was the twenty-seventh of October and while the rest of the residence and West and East Wings were decorated for the upcoming evening of Halloween, the living quarters of the President and First Family had been decorated with the bright and cheerful splendor of Christmas. Wreaths, garlands, and other bright displays of Yuletide spirit were everywhere, giving the very deceptive appearance that the White House was eager for the holidays. 

Bon Appétit Magazine had arrived to get a head start on their December special issue which would contain a feature article entitled, “A First Christmas: A Holiday with the Lecters”; tasteful photographs of the First Family and their extended group of relatives and acquaintances would cover a spread along with various recipes that they often cooked for the Christmas holidays. Grandmother Rose’s sugar cookies, Lady Murasaki’s recipe for veal and asparagus, Edwardas Lecter’s traditional liver and beets with fava beans. It was not a vegetarian friendly menu for the most part. 

As it was Sunday, there would be photos of Abigail and her father cooking together in the kitchen, preparing the foods that would be part of the photo spread of their feast. The following day, Monday, would have the Kennedys and assorted other guests arrive in the late afternoon after work ended for the day to stage the photographs of everyone around the dining room table downstairs, creating a tableau of what dining with their family looked like. Bon Appétit was also filming for an online video, a special ‘behind the scenes with the First Family’. She and her father had stayed home from Mass that morning to spend a few hours rehearsing what they wished for the cameras to see; it wasn’t lies, but exaggerations of what their relationship with one another was. Her father was to play the doting provider of the family, a dichotomy of the traditional masculine and feminine gender roles in the household. She was to be the loving daughter that was entering into womanhood, both his little girl and the perfect hostess. Abigail was most excited for the few playful moments they were to share between them, scenes that would be choreographed for the sake of the camera, but containing warmth nevertheless. 

As the director of photography and the stylist looked over the clothes hanging on the garment rack, her father left no room for discussion on what Abigail would be wearing. 

“Abigail is best suited for jewel-tones. I have selected a few pieces she would typically wear while cooking at one of our dinner parties, and a dress she would wear as hostess.” Her father had already been dressed in the very deep navy blue suit that had an almost sapphire sheen to it, an equally blue shirt, and the maroon tie she’d bought him the year before for his birthday.  

The photos for the dinner would have her wearing a mallard green brocade cocktail dress her father had purchased for her in Milan a few years before and then had tailored to fit her not long after the inauguration. A princess length necklace of tiger’s eye beads that had once belonged to Olimpia Lecter and small gold dangling earrings adorned her, items that were timelessly chic and would certainly be on tread for the following year. 

For the day’s photos and filming in the kitchen, she was to wear a plum cardigan over a dove grey blouse and navy trousers. She thought she looked very refined and mature, and an off white chiffon scarf had been tied around her neck. Her father had already dictated that she was to have her hair up and he’d approved of her hair being french braided and then pulled up into a ponytail; she couldn’t remember ever having her hair like this and she couldn’t stop looking at herself in the mirror, studying the style with interest. Admittedly, she thought her father’s controlling side was showing just a hint more than usual in front of the people around them, but no one said anything, so maybe it was more obvious to her. 

“You look perfect,” he told her as she had her makeup finished. She was happy he approved and he glanced to the woman who’d applied it. “A hint of pink in the creases of her eyelids should warm her complexion.” It wasn’t offered as an option and then he excused himself to inspect the ingredients the ushers had brought upstairs.

“He’s very talented with paintings. He has an eye for colours,” Abigail said helpfully, careful not to sound defensive or desperate; she didn’t need anyone jumping to conclusions about him. “He taught me how to put on make-up.”

The woman smiled as she selected a pink from her palette. “A renaissance man.”

Her lips quirked slightly. “Yes.”

Once in the kitchen, the art of cooking and baking commenced. Uncle Jack had complained that it might come across disingenuous to voters that her father was fixing a massive, expensive feast after campaigning based on wanting to feed the masses, but her father waved off the concerns, reminding him that no one would believe the Lecters sat around and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Christmas day. Abigail was to supervise the items sautéing in the pans on the stove and whenspeck of hot oil hit the back of her hand, she didn’t flinch or acknowledge it, lest she accidentally draw attention to herself and away from the masterpiece of a scene she and her father were creating. This was merely a performance piece they were executing and she wasn’t allowed to make mistakes. The show must go on. 

He handed her the whisk and as she walked over to the sink with it, she ran a finger through the chocolate sauce; to anyone else, it would look as though she was sneaking a taste, but in actuality, this was just another element of the rehearsed day. When the moment required her to acknowledge humour, Abigail made sure to laugh elegantly so that the camera would flatter the expression; she’d been taught these expressions by Aunt Bee and found it to look very charming in photographs.

Cakes, meats, vegetables, sauces, and sides were carefully brought about the kitchen: photographed, commented on, and then removed by the ushers to be taken down to the kitchen downstairs. Her father carried an impressive goose to the ovens and Abigail frosted a cake, carefully covering the surface with rich buttercream; she’d perfected her technique after years of making desserts for the annual bake sales at Sidwell Friends and at the family church in Baltimore.  

“Will Graham isn't coming to the photo shoot tomorrow?” the editor asked, not hiding her hopefulness very well. She held a list of the intended guests in her hand and Will’s name wasn’t on it  

“Unfortunately he is very busy with his work this week though he regrets not being able to attend.” In truth, her father had never asked Will to join them, which Abigail hadn’t been happy with. 

Everyone was still hoping that during the remaining time of Will’s fifteen minutes of fame, he’d grant an interview or even a soundbite, something he’d denied everyone so far. Bon Appétit apparently had hoped they might be the lucky ones to at least get a word or two while Will sat at the table. Abigail thought it was very greedy of everyone wanting his time, but bit her tongue as her father lied about their family’s reality. 

*****

It was Tuesday and the afternoon was warm and welcoming as everyone in the family. A handful brought her early birthday gifts, which she promised to set aside and open on the eighth. The Residence buzzed with friendly touches and kind smiles, and while Abigail still stayed close to her father’s side shyly, she was happy. At the dining table, which had been set up with an elegant arrangement of winter greens from the floral department and gnu horns from her father’s collection, everyone was eventually seated and socialising comfortably in front of the cameras. Aunt Caroline spoke to her of the soon appointment of herself to the ambassadorship to Japan. Patrick was discussing the likelihood that he could get his stupid anti-marijauna bill passed through Massachusetts state assembly. Aunt Maria was quietly talking to her children about their flight back to California once the staged dinner was over. Aunt Bee seemed genuinely content to be surrounded by her kin and kept giving lazy smiles in the direction of she and her father. 

“I wish Will could have been part of the article. I love watching him try to cook things. He gets such a frustrated look on his face,” Abigail admitted during a brief interlude of serving. 

Her father smiled at her. “He wants to impress us.”

There was nothing human in the dishes, as the act was entirely symbolic. Most of their family would not be staying to eat it, all with their own lives to manage. They were simply there to help with the photo shoot, ready to reconvene during the actual holidays in Hyannis Port. Her father carved up the goose in front of the camera and after the first plate was served, just like that, the family was offering them quick kisses, hugs, and handshakes as they left, done with their part of the act. No one was staying to eat, all with apologies that they couldn’t enjoy the family’s cooking. Abigail was relieved naturally that she’d have her father to herself and she knew he didn’t particularly want toThe photography crew took a few closeups of the plated dishes and then they were packing up their equipment as well. 

Abigail assisted the ushers who’d waited quietly in the kitchen with removing food from the platters so that they could be reassembled into sandwiches; she took the time to converse with the ushers, secretly storing away any information they provided that might be useful later on. When her father had seen the last of their guests out, his cheeks bore the small smudges of about a dozen different lipsticks and glosses. After he checked on their progress, he excused himself to his room to straighten up; he returned five minutes later and began to assemble sandwiches as well. 

As they stood together at the counter, they chatted about his time at the clinic. He'd used to keep sandwiches in a small refrigerator in his office for the patients that came in hungry. Did you know it only took one 180 lb man to feed a fifty people? Baltimore was large enough a city that people went missing all the time. None of that was discussed aloud, they were facts she remembered from childhood, but he did sometimes reminisce about the work he’d done in the medical field. She knew he had never enjoyed the exams and general practice he’d been forced to endure to maintain his standing at Kick’s, where contributing hours to the walk-ins was a requirement of being hired. Sometimes she’d wondered why he hadn’t simply opened up his own private practise somewhere, but that perhaps would have led to too many possibilities of fingers pointing back at him being the Chesapeake Ripper. No one would ever suspect someone who was employed at a free clinic and served hungry patients sandwiches. 

The sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and tied neatly with twine, they were loaded into baskets and handed off to the ushers, who would take them downstairs to the White House volunteers who would then distribute them to the various protest groups that camped out around the White House gates.Abigail felt accomplished that the spectical was over, and when her father left for a private meeting in the Situation Room and she was left alone in the Residence, she pulled out her phone and sent a quick text to Will. 

<< _Wish you were here today_ >>

*****

Will wasn’t surprised that when Hannibal presented a plate that evening that had a sandwich on it, he referred to in the most pretentious way possible. “I have brought you sliced breast meat from a roasted goose, assembled on a six seed wheat bread, with lightly braised asparagus, a freshly made cranberry sauce with orange zest, and dijon mustard. A casual version of the classic Christmas dinner.”

Will frowned. “Christmas dinner?”

“There was a photo shoot for Bon Appétit—“

“All of you get out!” Will shouted at the Secret Service angrily; a boiling hatred was filling him and he didn’t want them to hear anything he had to say because he had no intentions of mincing words. Once the room was clear and the agents were outside, Will hissed, “That’s _disgusting_. You are the last person who should be allowed to cook for a food magazine.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the other man. “This is that exhibitionist side of you that I saw, but was willing to overlook.”

“Shall I not make appearances for food related media anymore, Will?” Hannibal looked as though his patience was running thin, which meant that a nerve had definitely been hit. When Will said nothing, Hannibal raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Well? As you are a member of this family and my partner, you have equal say in the matter. If this is truly offensive to—“

“It’s reprehensible. It’s like when all those assholes had Issei Sagawa write restaurant reviews for their magazine!” Will knew it would be a low blow.

Hannibal’s face suddenly turned ugly with his glare and frown, and was obviously biting his tongue at being compared to someone he considered absolutely beneath him.

“I shall decline any further invitations to participate in those activities from this point forward. Is there anything else you wish of me?” Hannibal said stiffly.

“I don’t even want to understand you anymore. I thought that if I did it would at least make you more predictable, but you are just shameless and it makes me _sick_.”

Hannibal was quiet for a beat, then: “Why haven’t you been taking your medication?”

“What?” The question had caught him entirely off-guard. 

“This is the second time I’ve been here and I’ve not smelt it on you.” Hannibal took a step forward. “Have you run out?”

“No, I—“ Hannibal placed his hand on Will’s forehead and the action was so familiar and comforting that he’d not even thought to flinch. “It was making me nauseous. I…” Will voice began to quiet as Hannibal brought his hand down to take Will’s pulse. “I’ve been trying to make myself eat. I thought maybe it was just because I couldn’t bear to have food in my mouth.”

“Psychosomatic.”

Will nodded. “But I was double checking my medication—just picked up my refill—and I saw one of the side effects was nausea and lack of appetite.”

Hannibal clucked his tongue. “My sweet Will. Have you experienced any muscle or joint soreness or pain?”

He had, but hadn’t considered it to be a symptom of anything. “It’s because I’m compensating for my shoulder.”

“No, my love. Antivirals often present those symptoms. Though I suspect that your nausea is from the constant ingestion of the anti-inflammitories. You’re damaging you gastrointestinal tract.” Hannibal inspected his pupils. “Have you been photosensitive lately?”

“I’m always sensitive of photos,” Will joked weakly. “You know that.” 

“You had your antiviral this week?”

“No.” He’d gotten good at the injections, taking them either when he came downstairs to feed the dogs or during his lunch break at work. It only took four to last him the week, much better than the year previous where they’d been IVed into his system through a drip feed. But this week he’d decided not to, certain that it was the cause of his constant rejection of food when Hannibal wasn’t around.

“Go wait on your bed. I’m going to give you your medication.”

Will suddenly found himself feeling like he was young and being chastised for fucking something up, but when he met Hannibal’s eyes again, there was no indication that he was upset. Will nodded and went up to his bedroom, mind a flurry different thoughts, all held together with the thinnest of relevant threads. He sat down on the edge of his bed, dreading being filled with liquid that had the slightest yellow tinge to it. Hannibal arrived with a tray that held a wrapped needle, three bottles of his chilled antiviral medication, a napkin, and a glass of water.  

“Your arm,” Hannibal instructed and Will rolled up his sweater sleeve. 

Holding his arm out, he watched as Hannibal prepared the needle and bottles with the precise care that only a doctor could master; something warm filled Will’s heart, the associations of Hannibal’s clinical demeanor and the realisation that he was being cared for was triggering a desire to be close to the other man. Whether Hannibal realised this was up for debate. 

“Thank you,” he murmured as Hannibal inserted the first filled needle into Will’s left forearm.

Hannibal said nothing, his eyes meeting Will’s briefly before returning to gaze at the area where the needle slipped into skin. Once all three injections were over, Hannibal set the used needle on the tray and took the glass of water. Hannibal drank half of the cup, then offered it over to Will. _‘He was proving to me that it wasn’t drugged,’_ he thought absentmindedly as he forced himself to swallow the rest of the water. 

“Lie down,” Hannibal instructed as he took the bottles and needle out of the room.

Will lie back on the bed, relaxing his breathing as he considered that among the many secret and forbidden things he wanted, Hannibal’s care was one of them. As a rule he didn’t like doctors, but Hannibal would always be the exception, cannibal or not. He was just detached enough that he didn’t make Will feel smothered, just smart enough that Will felt as though he was in responsible hands, just skilled enough that Will couldn’t doubt him. His mind filled with images of the hundreds of patients over the years that must have felt the same way after encountering Hannibal, never suspecting for a second that the man was the most vile serial killer of the century.  

When Hannibal returned, he reclined on his side beside Will’s supine form. Will didn’t attempt eye contact, waiting for whatever it was the other man wanted to say. 

“Do you remember how eager you were to share a meal with me?” Hannibal asked softly. “I wonder, was it because of my cooking or my personality? Which did you prefer more? Or perhaps you thought there was something intimate about offering another person food and you were honoured to eat with me?” Will shuddered as Hannibal lay a flat palm over his heart. “Watching you take the first bite was almost enough to send a chill up my spine. I do not attribute cannibalism to any form of eroticism, but your pleasure at something I’d created…” Will groaned softly as Hannibal laved at the pulse on his neck. “My beloved.” Hannibal kissed his throat. “And now I feed you your rabbit food. Because it’s what you wish for.”

He supported himself on his elbow, leaning over Will; opening up Will’s shirt slowly, he continued to suck and kiss at Will’s neck.Surgeon’s fingers traced warm and smooth across Will’s chest and abdomen, and he could feel Hannibal’s dissatisfaction as he noted Will’s ribs.

“You are starving yourself,” Hannibal finally murmured as he nuzzled along Will’s neck.

“You go hungry, too, if you didn’t trust the cook,” he replied. 

“I have respected your wishes,” Hannibal promised, as though his words held weight any longer. His long fingers unzipped Will’s jeans.

“I have to live with the fact that people were cut up and put on my plate. You humiliated and tortured them for your own amusement and sense of justice. You violated me. How can you expect me to trust you again?” Will was disgusted with himself. 

“I can’t expect your trust. I can only assure you that if you give it to me, it will not be ill-placed.” Hannibal’s hand touched him through the cloth, warm and solid. 

“You know, this is called a hatefuck,” Will informed him as he felt the hand expose him to the room’s air. 

“I don’t hate you.” Hannibal licked his palm and brought it down to fondle at Will. “And I know you don’t hate me.”

Will inhaled sharply before continuing. “Hannibal, to truly hate someone, you have to have loved them once.”

“Are you saying that because of our love, you are truly qualified to hate me?”

“Yes.” Will felt how hard he was getting in Hannibal’s hand as he was stroked.

“You are confused.” 

“I’m really not.”

“Shhh.” Hannibal pressed a kiss against Will’s jaw. “Just focus on my hand. I want you to enjoy this. This doesn’t have to be anything more than you receiving pleasure.”

Will panted against Hannibal’s shoulder, eyes closed. He groaned softly at the feeling of Hannibal’s hand, at the way the mattress dipped under the President’s weight, that he could smell the familiar warmth of Hannibal’s skin and aftershave. Yes, all these things were what his mind still equated with safety. As long as he didn’t do anything that Hannibal wanted, then he could live with the fact that he was still able to get off on the fact that he was with possibly one of the most handsome men he’d ever known.

“You’re getting close.” Hannibal’s breath ghosted along his neck. 

Will let out a shuddering exhale as he continued thrusting into the familiar hand, throwing his head back onto his pillow. It took only a few more minutes before he was releasing into Hannibal’s fist and across his stomach, eyes wide open and on the other man’s. He tipped his head to the side, facing away from Hannibal. Briefly tempted to reach up and see if Hannibal needed the favour returned, he gripped his hands on the bed instead; it was petty and rude to deny a partner their own release, but Will wasn’t inclined to offer anything to the man who left him so conflicted. He closed his eyes again, his breath hitching as Hannibal’s thumb continued to rub small circles over the sensitive skin.

“You’re tired,” Hannibal murmured in his ear. “I shall get a washcloth.”

“Okay.” 

A gentle kiss below his ear. “Why don’t you undress and I’ll put your clothing in the laundry?” 

Will nodded; as he listened to the water running in the bathroom sink, he pulled off his clothing completely, kicking everything down to the end of the bed. Hannibal returned soon enough, wiping up the cooled and uncomfortable semen off his stomach; with half-lidded eyes, Will watched as Hannibal returned to the bathroom to deposit the washcloth in the hamper and then took Will’s discarded clothing there as well. Will drifted off to sleep, not waking until nearly midnight; the blankets had been tucked up carefully around him and he shifted around in the warm cocoon, wondering how long it had taken for Hannibal to agree to leaving him behind. He finally sat up when his eyes landed on a very prim envelope on the nightstand. He grabbed it and flipped it open, noting absentmindedly that the colour of the paper was known as ‘ecru exact’ and was the one Hannibal had insisted that all invitations that passed through the calligrapher’s office be presented on. The single card had navy blue ink and he let his fingers touch the words to feel the slight indentations caused by the metal nib of the pen that had written them.

_You are cordially invited on behalf of the President of the United States to celebrate the First Lady’s 18_ _ th _ _birthday on November 8_ _ th _ _, at 5 PM for entertainment and dinner._

He wondered what Abigail could possibly find entertaining that didn’t involve spilling blood. And he was willing to place money on this being the only invitation that had been commissioned, that he was the only guest asked to attend such a celebration.

The stars were right and Abigail was to cross the threshold into adulthood.

He slipped the invitation under his pillow and turned off the lamp so he could go back to sleep.

*****

Abigail was more than eager to greet her father upon his return from the New Jersey Boardwalk and she waited for him in his office. Upon seeing her, he indicated she wait, then left the office, talking briefly with Miss Mapp before returning with two unexpected items, one of which he presented to her—a stuffed toy dog. Eyes wide, she asked. “What’s this?”

“Governor Christie won it for you on the boardwalk.”

“Oh.” She held it out to examine it and then asked, “What game?”

“Skee ball.”

Abigail nodded as though she had any idea what skee ball was. “I’ll send him a thank you card in the morning.”

“And I won a frog.” Her father offered out a large neon green frog—cheap and unappealing. She tried not to make a face at the sight of it or even think about the fact that her father had to lose a game so that he didn’t look as though he was trying to one-up the governor.

“What shall…” God, she knew it would be rude to just throw them both in the trash, but what else could one do with such monstrosities? 

“We will hold onto it for our terms and perhaps they will be lost when we move back home.”

“Right.” She took them and slipping her hand into his, walked beside him as they made their way to the Residence. “Was it a good day?”

“Yes. Bedelia has informed me that the Governor will be experiencing a certain amount of discomfort now that I have assessed the local area.”

“Why?”

“There is suspicion that he will be a likely contender for the Republican presidential candidacy in 2016.”

She’d already been made aware of that during last year’s campaign. “Our probable rival.”

“Yes. Fortunately for her, she doesn’t have to manufacture a scandal. Apparently during the time he has had the Jersey Boardwalk revitalized, he has neglected many of the victims of the storms. There have a number of displaced families and businesses that have been unable to claim the funds they need to recover.”

“Do you think he’s been stealing?” she asked, relishing the warmth of his hand.

“No, I believe he spent too much in marketing and has overpaid various employees meant to handle the claims. People that are incompetent.”

“Oh.” She smiled, admiring her family for knocking out the competition before it even becomes officially considered. “Well, I’ll make sure to thank him for the toy then.” 

*****

Abigail had requested that anyone wearing a Halloween costume to work maintain both the White House’s professional dress code and that they be ‘tasteful’, having that word defined as nothing racist or offensive in nature. A few people in her office had donned costumes, mostly animal ears with carefully drawn whiskers and noses, though there was someone who’d creatively dressed up as Charlie Chaplin. Abigail had naturally decided not to dress up as anything; she had very nasty memories of cheap store-bought costumes that her mom dressed her in, of Garrett Jacob Hobbs yelling at her mom about how dangerous trick-or-treating was. Thankfully, her father had offered only once to celebrate, and after she’d declined, he’d never pressed the issue again; she suspected he’d never cared for the holiday anyway. Pretending to be Catholic meant that she was able to plead religious reasons for not participating and all in all, that had worked in her favor, but she still had a bowl of candy on her desk and a cheerful smile for anyone who stopped by to grab a piece.

In the afternoon, staffers and employees from all over the White House brought their younger children over, all dressed up, to collect candy from the various offices. She had little wrapped bags of cookies the kitchens had made over the week in preparation for the day and she knew in the Oval Office, her father was probably smiling and complimenting little kids on their costumes as he gave them something small and healthy like boxes of raisins or tangerines that had their peels drawn on to look like small jack-o-lanterns. Looking at all these kindergarteners and preschoolers milling around as she forced a smile on her face made her want to get her tubes tied.

That night her father stayed home from Will’s and they spent their time together, watching documentaries on the Netflix hooked up to the television in the family room and eating maple sugar cookies he’d baked for the two of them. She itched to text Will to come join them, but she was certain he’d decline. Besides, she’d see him later in his class and she smiled at the thought of waving to him. Her father indulged her in extra cookies, and then excused himself to bed; not particularly interested in watching anything without him, she finished her dessert and went to bed as well. 

*****

“How do I get his number?” Georgia murmured as they stood in the West Wing, waiting to use the Roosevelt Room.

Abigail looked up from her phone, scanning the crowded hallway. “Who are you looking at?”

Georgia gestured subtly to a younger man talking with a Secret Service agent. “Secretary Obama’s speechwriter. He’s just—“ 

Abigail broke away from her entourage and approached the man, holding out her hand. 

“First Lady Lecter,” she introduced cordially and sensing her assistant at her elbow, she then introduced her as well. “This is my personal assistant, Georgia Madchen.”

“It’s nice to meet both of you. I’m Jon Favreau.”

“Georgia, could you get his information, please?” As Georgia and the man traded BlackBerries to type their work information into the contacts, Abigail began to bullshit just to keep the conversation continuing in the direction she wanted—she really had no idea who this man was. “I really admire your work. Secretary Obama is very lucky to have you on staff. If you’re ever looking to work outside of his office, the West and East Wings would be eager to have you.”

He glanced up at her briefly with a genuine grin. “Thanks. Good to know.”

“Off to a conference?” Abigail asked, noting that he had a stuffed leather briefcase at his feet, as did many of the other staffers milling around. 

“I am. Secretary Obama has a big lineup in Ohio, so we’re headed off to the airport.”

She smiled and nodded. “Well, we won’t keep you any longer then. Have a safe flight.”

“Thank you. Have a good day, ma’am. Ms Madchen.”

Once inside of the Roosevelt Room and her own staffers began setting up the meeting she was holding with the secretarial staff from her father’s office, Georgia lingered at her side. 

“Oh my god, Abbie,” Georgia said with a hushed giggle.

Abigail found the whole matter trite, though tried not to show it. She loathed the meek and mild role her assistant fit into. “Well, now you call him.”

“I couldn’t! He’d know we only got his personal contacts for that.” 

Abigail let out an annoyed sigh. “Either take him or someone else will.” 

Georgia smiled for a few minutes as she played around with her phone and then her face fell after she evidently googled him. “Oh, he’s dating Rasheeda Jones.”

Abigail had no idea who that was. “Yes, but now he knows who you are.”

Georgia remained in a fairly pleasant mood for the rest of the day, which grated on Abigail’s nerves, so she pretended to busy herself with the preparations for her impending birthday. The closer the day came, the thicker the atmosphere in her office became; apparently, there was a heavy desire to attend her birthday ‘party’, which was less of a party and more of a chance to be in a room with her favourite people. She’d managed to avoid any questions about the matter and thankfully no one was crass enough to outright as if they’d been invited.

She was certain that her office would hold some juvenile celebration and she’d be forced to smile and look pleased. She shivered at the thought of being given tacky balloons that had the number 18 on them and party hats and—ugh, it was so, so pedestrian. As Georgia shared the story with LeBeau of how Abigail had very ‘boldly approached’ Favreau, she was reminded of Marissa—this was something Marissa would have done with her.

It was lonely at the top.

****

Abigail sat on one of the weight lifting benches of the Secret Service/White House employee gym; Barney had wanted to get an additional workout in before lunch and rather than be tossed off on some other agent, Abigail had decided to simply accompany him to the gym. For a while she’d merely browsed through John Boehner’s instagram account, but fortuitously she’d found something else to occupy herself with.

Margot Verger.

She was gorgeous—muscular and sure of her form. Abigail watched with a curious hunger as the other woman selected weights of the weight rack for her barbell, then began to do benchpresses. Margot was closer to her father’s age, but she had taken care of herself and possessed the same delicate baby-faced features she shared with her twin—well, if Mason still had a face, the features he would have. 

Margot would have been a fun playmate. She was strong and had the potential for violence—Abigail’s mind was filled with abstract thoughts of blood and screaming, Margot’s eyes fluttering shut and the glint of a knife. Standing from the bench, she approached the agent and stood at the head of that bench, her hands underneath the barbell, though not touching; there was no doubt that anyone watching them might believe she was spotting. Abigail looked down at Margot with a curious, albeit neutral expression.

“Did your brother ever tell you that he sang along with me while he did it?” she asked softly, her voice barely louder than the music playing through the ceiling speakers.

Margot was silent, her eyes glued to Abigail’s. 

Abigail’s lips quirked at the thought of Mason’s voice. “He’s not musically inclined, is he?” 

“No.” Margot’s voice was a whisper.

Abigail’s hands rested gently beneath the bar, rising up as Margot lifted. “Could he remember the words?”

Margot swallowed hard. “No.”

Abigail wished she could pick the other woman’s mind apart. “Could he remember the tune?”

“Yes.”

Barney approached them before Abigail could ask anymore questions; he was toweling off the back of his neck and at his throat as his eyes glanced between them.

“First Lady, time’s up.” The senior agent nodded to her. “Margot.”

Margot brought the barbell to rest in its holder and then sat up, nodding as Abigail moved over to his side. “Barney.” 

Abigail followed behind her agent, absently noting the Marine’s tattoo on his upper right arm; she knew he was a few years older than her father, that he’d been on Chilton’s detail, that he was registered as an independent voter, that he was a resident of the greater DC metro, and if she was any real judge of character, that he enjoyed being her agent.

“What were you talking with her about?” he asked as they walked through gym.

“Oh, nothing,” she said with a shrug.

He lowered his voice and leaned in, carefully directing her through the maze of exercise equipment with a steady hand. “Why don’t you stay away from her? I don’t want her brother to have any legal reason to start something with you or your dad.”

That was a fair enough point and Abigail was willing to agree to his reasoning. She’d leave Margot alone for now. “Okay.” 

He motioned one of the nearby agents over. “Go upstairs with Ellen and I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

She gave a quick salute and allowed herself to be led away.

*****

Hannibal arrived with dinner once more for Will, beautifully arranged vegetables to compliment the fresh lobster he’d cooked. Will allowed him to enter the house and Hannibal noted the dark circles beneath his eyes. Again, the food was rejected in the kitchen despite his insistence that the other man eat something and Hannibal placed it in the refrigerator; he could see a few fast food wrappers in the bottom of the trash can as he walked past it. Will was quiet tonight and Hannibal didn’t attempt to force any conversation, far more interested in deciphering what was on the other man’s mind.

Hannibal wanted to corner Will and the opportunity was presented when Will left for his bedroom. He’d not been invited, but so long as he wasn’t told directly not to join, he didn’t think it was rude to follow after him. Alone in the bedroom together, Hannibal quietly shut the door behind him and watched as Will went over to his bed, where his work from the university had been scattered across the blankets. 

Hannibal noted on the dresser by the bathroom door that there was a dog collar; interested, Hannibal went over to study it as Will continued to shuffle his papers off the bed and into his briefcase. It was Winston’s old dog collar, a secondhand nylon strap in faded green; the silver tags were still shiny, considering the dog had only been with Will for a short amount of time before he’d given the animal to Abigail. 

“What are you doing with that?” Will sounded emotionally tired.

“Why have you kept his tags on? Are you hoping he might return?” Hannibal asked, both out of curiosity and to mock.

The sudden fury that appeared in Will’s face reminded Hannibal of the sun emerging in a previously overcast sky; Will grabbed at the hanging metal tags, and began to work them off the flimsy ring they’d been attached to. Once they’d been removed, he watched Will fling them at the wall behind Hannibal, snapping, “There. Happy?”

Hannibal contemplated the collar for a moment, then slipped it around his own neck, buckling it into place. They were quiet for a moment as they stared at one another and Hannibal watched as Will’s mind warred at the visual information he was being presented; finally Will nodded his head to the bed, not breaking eye contact. 

“Leave it on,” Will ordered quietly before leaving the room.

Hannibal undressed quickly, folding his clothes and stacking them on the space of the dresser that the collar had once occupied. Locating the bottle of lubrication that Will had bought for their rendezvous, he reclined on the bed, stretching himself open with his fingers; the nylon collar was rough on his skin and a few stray fibers of coarse dog fur were stuck in the woven band, irritating his throat, but entirely tolerable. And what was desire without tolerating the things that bothered him?

Will returned to the room and locked the door. He stared at Hannibal for a long moment, his face devoid of emotion then turned off the lights and began to undress. In the velvet darkness, where only the light from the bathroom night light and the reflection of the waning moon highlighted the edges of their skin, Will came to him, settling over him. Hannibal took one of the younger man’s hands and pulled it up to touch at the collar; when he allowed Will a few seconds of hesitant investigation, Hannibal couldn't help but ask, 

“Aren’t you supposed to check if it's too tight?”

Will looked shocked and grimaced, but said nothing.

“Are you going to tell me I’m a good boy, Will?” he asked next. 

For this, he received a glare. “No. You’re not a good boy and you’re not my dog.”

No, he wasn’t a dog and that was good for _everyone_ to remember. Soon enough, he ended up with his ankles over Will’s shoulders and he panted heavily as though this was a physical exertion to him. It wasn’t as precise an angle as he preferred and he was applauding himself for not bothering with an erection of his own, as he was sure that by now he would have lost it. Will certainly wasn’t the most unsophisticated lover he’d had over the years, but he would expect a little more finesse in the years to come. 

He feigned a startled gasp as Will began a relentless pace, feeling sweat between their bodies. Quicker than the other man could respond, Hannibal grabbed Will’s head and pulled it close so that he could speak lowly into the other man’s ear. “Isn’t this how you like me best? All my fineries in place so that at the end of our tryst, I’ll look so _debauched_?” He hissed his words, feeling his own excitement at how Will had tensed above him. “That’s what you enjoy, is it not, Will? The power you feel at reducing me to something messy and breathless? Even now you can’t hide the arousal I spark in you.” 

And oh, how _humiliated_ Will looked when Hannibal let him go, his eyes now avoiding Hannibal, his brow knotted. Hannibal arched beneath him, wanting to goad him into exorcising whatever thoughts were bothering him.

“Just—“ Will finally gasped. “Just shut up.”

Will was sweating and his glasses kept sliding down his nose; Hannibal finally reached up and took them off, wanting to rid the man of the distraction and before he realised it, Will had struck him hard across the face. 

“Know your fucking place,” he snarled, holding completely still as his eyes burned.

Hannibal nodded slowly and Will resumed his pace. Ah, Will wanted him humiliated and uncomfortable completely, subservience that wouldn’t challenge him. He could give him that. Hannibal made a soft groan that sounded like a protest. He struggled slightly and jerked against him as though he wanted to stop but didn’t have a choice. He exposed his throat, feeling the collar press against his adam’s apple and he swallowed so that Will would be reminded it was there. One of Will’s hands came up to tug at the collar, creating sensations of being choked for a few seconds before Will would let him go, then try again. Hannibal let out a whimper, knowing that Will would think of it in hindsight and hate it, hate that he having rough sex as the aggressor.

Hannibal interspersed the right amount of cries and moans as the sex became rougher, feeling that it was edging Will closer and closer to his orgasm until finally Will let out a shout, his hand yanking hard enough on the collar that Hannibal let out a small noise as a result of being choked, but he didn’t struggle any further. After a moment, Will slumped forward and started crying, his grip on the collar lax;Hannibal held him close, stroking his head. There. Whatever had been possessing his Will’s mind had exorcised itself out and now he was left with the gorgeous brilliance he so cherished, veined with compassion and misery the way marble contained veins of mineral. He said nothing, knowing that it wouldn’t be wanted. Finally, Will sat up, his expression filled with shame, eyes still avoiding his as his fingers shook as he removed the dog collar; it was tossed to the floor and when Hannibal sat up as well, Will shuddered against him.

“William.” Hannibal kept his voice low and nonthreatening. 

Will’s reply sounded like defeat. “I hate you. I hate what you make me feel. You provoke me and I’m left with nothing but this. This isn’t me.”

“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “Who is it?”

Will was quiet for a few minutes. “I’ve been putting together a lecture on a senator from Idaho.”

“He enjoys sexually humiliating his partners.”

Will didn’t answer, merely nodded. Hannibal brought Will’s head to his, resting his forehead against Will’s temple. 

“Come back with me.” Hannibal wanted to wrap him up in the warm bedroom on 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

“No.” He wiped at the slowly drying tears on his cheeks. “God, get out.”

“I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I don’t work for you anymore. Why would it make sense for me to go there? Are you trying to get caught?” Will’s eyes widened in horror. “ _Are_ you trying to get caught?”

“How droll.” Hannibal naturally wanted everyone to know about man he wished to spend his life with, but it was necessary to ease Will into the inevitability of their life together first. “I suppose I could stay…”

“Leave.”

“Allow me to stay.”

“You’re being rude. Get out.”

He rest his forehead against the side of Will’s once more. “Will, I don’t take pleasure in this.”

Will jerked away. “You don’t take pleasure in my suffering? Real cheap, Dr Lecter.”

“I don’t take pleasure in your self-imposed exile,” he clarified. “I do miss you.”

“You miss fucking me and fucking _with_ me.”

“I do miss our moments of stolen intimacy—“ this earned a loud smirk which he chose to ignore, “and I miss our type of humour—“

“Not enough people laughing at the cannibal jokes?” the younger man said snidely. 

“You’re being rude, Will,” Hannibal reminded.

“Am I trying your patience?”

“Not yet.” He kissed along a vein in Will’s neck, his voice gentle, but firm. “I will not beg you, if that’s what you want.”

“You proposed the desire to be my dog for the night and dogs aren’t allowed to sleep on the bed,” Will said flatly.

“I could always stay as your human, then,” he murmured, his lips wetted with the sweat on Will’s skin. 

Will’s hands pushed him away, not roughly, but enough to establish that he no longer wanted the affection. “Hannibal, I can’t do this with you. It’s killing me.”

Hannibal gently cupped Will’s face with his hand. “I could only ever be the death of you, as you will most certainly be the death of me.”

“Why would you want love to end in death?” Will’s voice was quiet enough that Hannibal was able to pretend that he didn’t hear the question, returning to kiss along the other man’s skin.

*****

The sounds from the second floor carried down the staircase and they had the very distinct tone of the nation’s leader—he sounded like he was really taking it; Matthew’s lips hinted at a smile, but kept it from growing into something more. He genuinely hated the nights Lecter came over to harass Mr Graham, but it wasn’t his place to say anything to Mr Graham—because despite what Mr Graham said about his relationship with the President, it was obvious that he was still conflicted about the feelings he had for Lecter. Matthew couldn’t blame him, Lecter had a seductive air about him—not necessarily sexual, but something that drew one to him. And he was probably a great lay. 

The President let out a particularly loud cry and Matthew took another drink of water from his bottle. Will was on fire tonight!

He imagined what Will would look like in bed—would he maintain that perpetual grimace or would his features soften in ecstasy? He’d be on top—there was no doubt in his mind about that. Probably have Lecter face down on the bed, whispering in his ear, _“Who’s my little bitch?”_ , fucking him relentlessly as Lecter whimpered back, _“I am. I’m your little bitch.”_

He almost laughed. 

“You don’t have to sit there, you know. You can come into the kitchen. Muffle the sound a bit,” one of the President’s evening detail agents told him, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.

Matthew shrugged. “We took an oath to protect the President. All sides have to be covered whether or not you’re uncomfortable listening to what’s going on.”

The agent shrugged as well, then retreated to the kitchen, leaving Matthew to maintain his vigilance. He wondered if Will left claim marks across the other man’s body, fingernails and teeth, or if he was careful not to do anything that might alarm the Secret Service should they catch a glimpse of the President’s bare skin. 

Matthew had a few tattoos on himself and he deeply wished that Mr Graham would leave something permanent on him, too…

*****

Dressed once more in his suit, Hannibal descended the stairs, having left Will to a miserable attempt at sleep. Hannibal met Brown’s eyes and held the gaze for a moment as he listened to his senior evening agent, Gonzalez, informing him that it would be safe to travel back to the White House. Brown’s eyes held the suggestion of defiance; Hannibal was well aware at this point of the man’s affections and interests in Will and he felt it was time to put him in his place. As he walked past Agent Brown, who stood at the bottom of the bannister, he leaned in and murmured, 

“He’s not ever going to think of you. Even when he hates me.”

Hannibal didn’t smile; as much as he wanted the words to mock, they were also the truth and there was nothing to gain by taking a humorous tone to it. No, he wanted Agent Brown to understand the seriousness of the matter. Will was his and he was Will’s, _forever_.

Brown stared at him in momentary surprise and if his face displayed any other emotion, Hannibal didn’t see it as he was already past him and headed to the front door. As always, none of his agents spoke to him, whether embarrassed that their President was in some oddly organised homosexual relationship or simply because they’d had to listen to it, Hannibal wasn’t sure, nor did he care. He spared a glance back at the house as his motorcade drove him away; lit from the inside, he found the pleasing image of a lone boat adrift on the ocean.

*****///*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Bon Appétit is an actual American magazine, focusing on gourmet food.
> 
> +Jon Favreau was the White House Director of Speechwriting from 2009-2013, joining Obama in 2007.
> 
> +Issei Sagawa “The Japanese Cannibal” is a murderer and controversial figure in pop-culture; in 1981, he murdered a Dutch woman in France and ate parts of her body over the course of two days. French courts found him unfit to stand trial due to insanity and had him extradited to Japan. Upon arrival, he was examined by psychologists and were unable to find a legal reason to detain him, impart by the fact French court documents regarding the case are sealed and he was allowed to check out of the hospital, a free member of society. He has done interviews, published books, acted in a film, and written restaurant reviews for Spa magazine.
> 
> +In October 2012, a massive hurricane (Hurricane Sandy) hit the east coast of the US and destroyed much of the New Jersey coast. This was during the Presidential election and New Jersey state elections. It was a very big deal when President Obama (democratic incumbent) met with New Jersey Governor Chris Christie (republican gubernatorial incumbent) in the aftermath of Sandy right before elections—many republicans referred to Christie as a ‘traitor’, because he asked Republican candidate Mitt Romney not to visit Jersey. Both won their reelections and there is some speculation that the gesture of bipartisanship between Obama and Christie helped their pubic images. One year later, Christie invited Obama to return to the Jersey shoreside to see the progress that had been made for rebuilding. He did in fact win Obama a stuffed teddy bear.
> 
> +Speaker of the House John Boehner’s Instagram is @speakerboehner


	19. Chapter Nineteen

It was a fairly slow afternoon and Abigail had moved herself into the conference room; that morning she and her father had recorded his weekly web and radio address together, discussing that the month marked not only the fiftieth anniversary of President Kennedy’s address to congress about mental health issues, but it was also Native American Heritage Month, which meant schools should put more emphasis on the history so often overlooked in their textbooks and classroom. She’d greatly enjoyed getting to sit beside him in the Treaty Room and speak in the same calm, diplomatic tone that he used. There were five days until her birthday and it had been decided that allowing her more time in the public spotlight would be good for the multitude of appearances she’d now be making as she was soon to officially be an adult. 

But with all the work out of the way for the day, she’d taken to sketching; with careful work from her graphite pencils, she’d depicted Clarice sitting on the edge of a Roman bath, her eyes downcast to the surface of the water. As Abigail had never seen Clarice naked, there was only so much she could speculate as to physical details such as freckles and birthmarks, or even scars, so she simply left her body unmarked. Shading the roundness of muscles and the soft curves of her nose and eyelids, she wondered what it would have been like if her father had in fact been attracted to her as Aunt Bee had intended. Well, of course he’d been attracted to her, but in the way he’d ended up attracted to Will. And Will was enough of an anomaly as it was—she never remembered her father with any men as she’d grown up. Except maybe that evening with Mason Verger when he’d allowed himself to be close to the other man; she wasn’t sure how Will would react to that piece of information.

So far, she’d drafted out Marissa washing her hair in the water and Miriam to the side, leaning against a column as they watched Marissa. They might be the Moirai—she hadn’t decided. But it was relaxing to work on her sketches and not think about all the very boring realities of her job as First Lady. The door to the conference room had been left open and she didn’t have to glance up to know that Georgia had walked in. 

“What are you…” She looked up to see Georgia’s eyes wide at what Abigail was drawing. “Oh.”

“Do you need something, Georgia?” she asked neutrally.

Georgia tore her eyes away and handed over a file. “Uh, oh. Yes, I brought some final decisions for the designs of the gingerbread house.”

Abigail set her pencil down and looked through the printed artwork she’d been handed. “These look terrible. So overdone.” She shuffled all the concept drawings back into the folder. “Ugh, this is the most cliché thing ever. Are they even trying anymore? Aunt Jackie, grant me the strength to get through the holidays.”

Georgia let out a quick laugh at Abigail’s unusual choice of prayer request and Abigail narrowed her eyes, before glancing over at Georgia, who had decided to take a seat beside her. 

“You should draw out a design for the gingerbread house,” Georgia suggested. 

Abigail thought of all the architectural work her father seemed so fond of.“I don’t really care for technical work.”

Georgia looked at Abigail’s sketch for a moment then asked quietly, “Do you miss her?”

Abigail could only assume she was referring to Marissa. “Yes.” 

“Oh, before I forget,” Georgia suddenly said, leaving the room and then returning with a newspaper that had been opened and“My mom saw this in the paper.”

“Oh, from the society pages.” She sighed heavily as she looked over the photograph of her standing next a very familiar face. There was a small caption below the article and she read it aloud. “First Lady Abigail Lecter and Triff Komeda, Inaugural Ball 2013.”

The article had been written by Komeda about the First Lady’s ‘fashion forward choices’ upon reaching office, that she’d personally been aware of Abigail’s eye for style from the beginning. It wasn’t exactly a thought-provoking piece, just a filler with a guaranteed interest for anyone who wanted to read about her or liked gossip. Abigail found it all boring and she gave another annoyed sigh at Komeda’s speculation that Abigail was a trend setter and would certainly shape fads during her father’s time in office. Georgia sat patiently at her side as she read and while Abigail’s eyes were still on the type print, she was actually scolding herself for how she’d been displaying her emotions so openly to the people of her office, like a brat —she really wasn’t, but that was the impression she’d been giving everyone recently, and she knew it was only a matter or time before word got back to her father and then she’d be in _real_ trouble. 

“It’s a nice article,” Abigail finally stated, folding the newspaper back to its original state.

“May I ask you something?”

Abigail braced herself for an ‘are you a lesbian because you’re drawing naked women?’ conversation, was instead asked,

“You really miss Will, don’t you?” Georgia lowered her voice, apologetic. “I just noticed that ever since he was shot and said he wasn’t coming back that you’re not as happy.”

“I miss him very much. And it feels strange to know he’s not just on the other side of the White House, where I can see him any time I want to,” she admitted, finding it freeing to have a moment of honesty.  

Georgia nodded, her fingers playing with the pencil Abigail had left on the tabletop. “I worry that Will doesn’t want to come back because there weren’t a lot of people who made him feel welcome.”

“Who didn’t make him feel welcome?”

“Um, you know…”

“You can tell me, Georgia.” She gave her a kind smile.

“Well, a lot of people in the West Wing. They weren’t comfortable with him. Said he couldn’t be trusted.”

Abigail couldn’t understand how anyone could draw that conclusion. “Why would they say that?”

“You know, the rumours.”

“The rumours?”

“That he’s mentally unstable. That he’s…dangerous.” Georgia looked embarrassed to be gossiping. 

“He’s not dangerous to my dad or I,” Abigail pointed out.

Her assistant assured her, “I know. I trust him.”

Abigail wondered if she could ever talk Will into strangling Georgia. Or bashing her head in. While it would be satisfying to kill Georgia with her own hands, there would be more amusement if it was done by a man Georgia considered her friend.

“Ms Bloom was saying it wouldn’t be good for him to come back here. That the environment wasn’t healthy for him,” Georgia added and Abigail decided that she needed to work harder at creating a rift between her aunt’s assistant and Will. 

“Alana doesn’t really understand Will.” Abigail tilted her head and placed a hand atop her aide’s. “Not like _us_ , Georgia. We know how happy Will was. Because we’re his friends.”

Georgia’s smiled broadened as she nodded in agreement. Abigail smiled as well, pulling her hand back. 

*****

Time continued moving closer to the day she would legally reach adulthood and still she hadn’t heard any reply from Will regarding her birthday dinner. Anxious butterflies had filled her stomach and she found herself nearly addicted to checking her cellphone for any sort of message from him; she’d been so busy with her work at the White House that she’d been unable to attend any of his lectures or classes, which was disappointing but such a small part of why she liked seeing him. Three days before her birthday, she was desperate to take her mind off things and as she helped her father prepare dinner, she made a suggestion.

“I have a few movies we could watch in the theatre. ‘Great Gastby’, and a little independent film called ‘The Butler’. It’s about a White House butler in the eras before they became ushers.”

The White House was sent dozens of early releases and while she was aware that her father had very specific films he wanted to watch, she thought that those two seemed most likely to interest him. Definitely not ‘Pacific Rim’, ‘Gravity’, or ‘Iron Man 3’ which held a level of fantasy that they didn’t find particularly interesting.  

“I’m unfamiliar with that one,” her father commented as he sliced carrots.  

“It’s based on a butler’s actual life. They interviewed him back when Secretary Obama was running for office.”

“I suppose it would be interesting to watch. You may add that to the list.” 

A chill ran up Abigail’s spine and she shook slightly; when she’d been little, she’d once asked her father what caused the feeling and he’d told her it happened when the stainless steel appliances in their kitchen received a smudge mark on it. Keeping the stainless steel in the kitchen polished and clean was a near impossible task even in their immaculate household, and while it had taught her the importance of not touching anything unnecessarily, which might leave fingerprints behind, it was a chore that she hated above all others. As she’d grown older, she knew it was a ridiculous superstition, but even still there was a part of her that believed him.

He raised an eyebrow slightly and she said, “The stainless steel is getting smudged.”

In Baltimore, a Secret Service agent keeping watch on the Lecter family residence left a fingerprint on the refrigerator handle as he removed the box of pizza he’d bought earlier in the day.

*****

Two days before her birthday, Abigail was brought to her father’s office; he dismissed everyone from the room including their agents and she considered that they might be about to plot some way to show Will their love, but he disrupted those thoughts by saying,

“Abigail, Pope Francis will be calling my phone in a few minutes.”

Before confusion could register completely, she remembered that she was to be given a countess title by the Papal See should she be deemed fit to receive it. She gave him a startled smile and allowed him to lead her over to his chair behind his desk. He took a seat in a chair beside her and she neatened her hair behind her ears, trying to put herself in the sweetest, most congenial mindset she could imagine. 

“Countess Abigail Lecter,” he murmured and she smiled squeezing his hand.

She’d spent countless hours doing charity work, attending catechism and baptism, wasted weekends participating in Catholic youth activities, committed all of the Old Testament to memory as well as a good portion of the New. She’d never once believed in God—if she needed a higher power, that’s what her father existed for. It was terrible being atheist and feigning interest in a religion so strict, but finally all the shitty niceties she’d preformed were paying off. How many people could claim they had an official title they could put at the front of their name? It had such a nice ring to it—she wanted new stationary ordered with it on the header, then considered her father probably had already thought of that and bought it for her. 

The small green light on the phone that indicated an incoming call began blinking and she gave her father an exhilarated smile before she answered.

*****

The night before her birthday, Abigail was surprised by a knock at her bedroom door; setting down the book she was reading, she answered it and found her father waiting. 

“May I come in?”

“Please.” She stood aside and as he walked in, he took her hand in his, looking down at her fingers. “What are you doing?”

“It’s my last day with my little girl.”

She began to smile. “Are you going to paint my nails?”

“If you would like, my princess.”

“I would.” It was one of their special father-daughter activities he’d always treated her to and as he released her hand, she hurried over to her closet, opening the doors. “I was thinking about wearing that green silk skirt you bought me with the tan jacket Missoni sent over…”

His face didn’t change—nothing changed—but she knew immediately that wasn’t what he wanted her to wear, so she turned her head back to the closet, trying to guess what would make him happiest.

“But perhaps if I wore the pink sweater Aunt Bee bought and the navy…” No, still not happy with that. Fuck, why was it so complicated to dress herself? She was going to be eighteen tomorrow—she should have this mystery figured out already! Her eyes scanned over the clothes again as he waited patiently, her mind now frantically running combinations of what to wear. Blue! He always told her that he was fond of her in blue! “Or I could put on the Dior blouse you bought me two years ago with the charcoal tweed suit?”

He gave a small smile, a mark of triumph that she’d figured it out and he nodded once. “That would look so becoming on you.” He stepped into the bathroom and as he explored her vanity, he called out, “I think I’ll choose a light pink.”

“Right,” she agreed, smiling forlornly, because that was the only colour she’d ever been allowed to wear on her nails, something neutral, safe, _tame_.

But her expression brightened when he returned and she followed him faithfully out of her bedroom to the cosmetics room behind the elevator. There was a manicurist station and as she sat across from her father, she watched him setting out all the supplies for a perfect manicure: acetone, a small brush, cotton balls, emery boards. As he began to file her nails into tastefully short ovals, she sat in comfortable silence; when she’d been little, they’d take the time to discuss her school career, but as she’d become older, she understood that he preferred the absence of small talk, which she could respect, even though she would rather spend the time listening to him or vice versa. 

Once her nails were shaped the way he liked, he removed the nail polish brush from the bottle and began to paint the thin first layer onto the nails of her left hand. He gave her a fond look that looked almost alien on his face, but was one she treasured desperately. These were looks usually reserved for Mischa and not her. For a blindingly painful moment she wondered if he’d no longer give her this affection once the clock struck midnight. For a few minutes she tormented herself with the horrible thoughts and swallowed hard as her throat tightened.

“What’s the matter, my darling?” he asked as he painted her little finger. 

“You’ll still love me, right? Even though I’m an adult?” She felt a tear slip down her cheek.

“You’re worried I’ll abandon you.”

She nodded, wanting him to understand how horrible he was for making her doubt. Setting the brush back in the bottle, he cupped her face with his hands and said softly, 

“Abigail. I will not lose interest in you simply because in the eyes of the law you are an adult. You will always be my child. If I’d wanted you young forever, I would have kept you young forever.”

She exhaled in relief; he would have killed her if he didn’t need her, a sweet mercy, because she would rather _die_ than be rejected. 

“All better?” he asked, his thumb brushing away the single tear.

She nodded and leaned into his touch. “Yes. Thank you.”

*****///****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Moirai are the Greek Fates. 
> 
> +’The Butler’ was a 2013 historical film inspired by the life of Eugene Allen, who worked at the White House as a butler. The butler position later became the usher position. The film was conceived after an article in 2008 about various African-Americans who’d worked at the White House; it was written as the 2008 elections had the possibility of an African-American president (Barack Obama) being elected. As this is an alternative universe, Senator Obama was not elected and the film script was not picked up by a major movie label, but a smaller producer, probably something that would have been submitted to Sundance Film Festival. If you haven’t seen ‘The Butler’, I’d really recommend it. The article about Eugene Allen was published in the Washington Post and is entitled “A Butler Well Served by This Election”.
> 
> +One does not obtain countess/count titles from the Papal See via heredity as Hannibal’s ‘Count Lecter’ title exists in the books. Just an artistic liberty I took to explain why he’d have it in this universe. The Papal See grants titles based on a person’s life work in the church and community. Rose Kennedy (JFK’s mother) was given a countess title for her religious work and piety. 
> 
> +Missoni is an Italian fashion house, known for their zig-zag line pattern. 
> 
> +If you don’t remember who Mrs Komeda is, she’s the woman who wore the red dress at the charity concert Hannibal attends in the first season and she begs a dinner party of him. Her first name isn’t listed, so I just made one up. Who knows what ‘Triff’ is a nickname for.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Discussion of self-harming
> 
> +Possible ablest thoughts from Abigail; there’s certainly an actual lack of empathy for the most part, and an overall patronising theme

The first thing Abigail did when she woke was check her phone, hoping that Will had left some kind of acknowledgement about it being her birthday, imagining that she might have slept through any small sound her phone might have made to alert her that contact had been attempted. But there was nothing—no text, no missed phone call, no message. She turned the screen off and stared at her desk; had he forgotten? That didn’t seem likely—Will was the only person she’d ever met who was even remotely as smart as her father, and she doubted that with a mind so brilliant at remembering practically everything, he’d forget a reoccurring and publicly discussed date.

Stretching her legs under the bedsheets, she considered her plans for the day. No doubt her father had been planning for her breakfast and preparing for their dinner; she’d been labeling that particular meal as her ‘party’, which was fucking ridiculous when she got down to it, because she and her father didn’t have parties on her birthday. Really, the only aspect of it that she could consider to be the ‘party’ aspect of it was that Will would be there. She’d already (politely) requested that they could watch a movie together in the theatre (her father’s choice) and the three of them could eat popcorn. Her stomach tightened at the thought of getting to spend time with the two adults she loved the most and she smiled, thinking how wonderful it was that her birthday would bring them all back together.

And now to start her morning. It was a tradition, a silly superstition that the first song she listened to on her birthday was something meant to give her good luck and influence the rest of her year at her new age. Today, she needed to pick something important. _‘Something that will bring Will back to me,’_ she thought to herself. _‘Something empowering that will keep him with us.’_ As she climbed out of bed, she remembered a song she’d heard two or three years back out on a boat trip between the Kennedy compound and Nantucket; the cousins around her age had been playing the radio on the deck as they made their leisurely trip to the island and when the song had come on, she’d been captivated. She’d tried to ask what the name of the song was, but the other cousins had laughed at her not knowing the song and she never really got an answer; embarrassed, she’d not pursued information on the song as it was something that only reminded her of how separate her world was from theirs. She couldn’t remember all the words exactly, but she recognised them exactly as a description of the love she felt for her father, so it seemed only appropriate that she sing it for Will, too.

She knelt before her the display of finished flies she tied with Will, safely kept on her desk, and clasped her hand in prayer, closing her eyes. She began to hum the tune as best as she could remember, and thought along the lyrics. _‘Your skin, oh your skin and bone, will turn into something beautiful, oh don’t you know, for you I’d bleed myself dry, I would bleed myself dry. Your skin and bone, turning into something beautiful, don’t you know that I love you so?’_

Satisfied that she’d thought something so beautiful and pure for Will, she kissed the scar on her palm and blew it to the lures before leaving to shower. Once she’d readied herself for the day, dressed in the clothes that her father had given his approval to the night before, she made her way to the kitchen; Washington DC could be on fire and she knew that it wouldn’t keep her father away from cooking for her. She nodded her greetings to the evening agents in the hallway whom were finishing up the ends of their shift, thanking them for wishing her a happy birthday. The kitchen smelt heavenly and she breathed in deep as she walked in, putting a warm and happy smile on her face. 

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully the moment she saw her father.

“Good morning, Abigail.” He gestured to their plates on the counter. “I hope you are in the mood for crepes.”

“I am! Thank you.”

He kissed her on the cheek and while the act looked very casual, she knew it was carefully calculated. “Happy birthday, my darling.”

“Thank you.” Settling on to the stool at the counter, she asked, “Has Will contacted you? About my dinner tonight? He hasn’t written back to me and I’m just worried he’s not…” She didn’t dare say ‘not coming’. “ _Aware_ that it’s tonight.”

“He has not.”

“If he’s told you to keep his arrival a secret, just tell me so I won’t worry. I can look surprised when he shows up,” she promised.

“He hasn’t.”

“Oh.”

As her father poured more crepe batter onto the hot griddle, he informed her, “One of the stablehands at the property was kicked in the head by Caramel this morning.”

Abigail wondered if it was the woman who usually brought her horse out when she worked on her dressage. “Is she dead?”

“ _He_ is in the hospital undergoing surgery.”

Someone she didn’t know? That was just boring and irrelevant, then. “I don’t really care.”

“Bedelia is already discussing a legal settlement,” he added, extra information that she was unable to make heads or tails of. 

What did that mean to her? Why were they talking about this when they had Will to worry about? What was the big deal? 

“Was it Caramel’s fault?” she asked, trying to understand why this should matter to her.

“I don’t know.”

She turned her nose up. “Well, I have more important things on my mind than someone who stood in the wrong place. He should have known better.”

He came to stand behind her, rubbing her shoulders. “You are so tense this morning.”

He’d never approved of her displaying so much negative emotion and to keep herself in his good graces (especially on her birthday) she decided it was best that she at least explain herself to him.“I’m just concerned about tonight’s dinner party. I want Will to love it.” He kissed the side of her head and returned to the preparation of food. “That way he’ll see he was wrong and that we forgive him and that we love him very much.” She watched as he uncovered the Le Creuset he removed from the oven; the juices that the meats were simmering in reminded Abigail deeply of home and of the way they’d shaped their family, and her mouth watered. “Those sweetbreads look delicious.” 

He smiled but said nothing; once their plates were assembled, he nodded for her to go into dining room before him. The table had a large arrangement of white orchids, pale hydrangea blossoms, and purple fiddleheads, and scattered amongst the flowers were small bleached reptile skulls and bronze and silver Slavic temple rings that had been in the Lecter family for dozens of generations, all acquired during a particularly bloody point in their history. As she found her seat at the table, she touched one of the more decorative rings and watched as a plate was put before her. The crepes smelt so sweet and patiently she waited for her father to be seated as well. It was still a disappointment that Will wasn’t there, however. 

Abigail finally mustered a smile, returning her focus to the meats on the plate. They’d been sliced thinly and fanned on the plate, obtained from an optometrist who’d not held an elevator door for either she or her father, if she remembered her meats correctly.

“May the day be filled with happiness,” her father proclaimed as he raised his cup of coffee.

She was no longer the princess, but the queen.

*****

Once at the East Wing office, Abigail was bombarded with loud shouts of ‘Happy Birthday!’ from her staffers, balloons, flowers, and a wrapped box. As she accepted hugs and handshakes on her way to her desk, her Chief of Staff said quietly in her ear, 

“Our office is going to release a statement about what happened at the Kennedy stables—your father told you, right? Okay, well, this is what we wrote up—just look it over and make sure there isn’t anything you want to add.” Mrs Madchen handed over an official document with her office’s title at thetop. As Abigail glanced it over, sitting down at her desk, Mrs Madchen continued. “I know it’s your birthday and I don’t want you to feel any guilt about this—bad things happen. We just have to make it clear that you care and you’re not trying to ignore it.”

 _‘Why would I feel guilty? It was Caramel, not me,’_ Abigail thought to herself, irritated. “Yes, it looks fine. Do I need to record the statement or—“

“It’s going in the daily press briefing.” 

She nodded, relieved. The last thing she wanted was for someone else to take up more of her precious time. 

“Abigail, we should send flowers to—“

Abigail glanced down at her watch, seeing that it was almost time to head downstairs to the presentation awaiting her in the State Dining Room. “Fine, do we have a card for it that I should sign?” 

As expected, Mrs Madchen produced one for her and she quickly scrawled out ‘First Lady Abigail Lecter’ on the bottom of the card, capped her pen, and passed it over to her Chief of Staff. It was hard not to look too impatient about the card, but she wanted to get out of the White House and on her way to Maryland to see Uncle Abel. Her present from her staffers was left on her desk and she promised them all as she was leaving the office that she’d open it later and she was _excited_! She wasn’t really excited—it felt like something that had been framed, possibly a photograph or a stupid letter that she’d have to hang up in her office so she didn’t offend them.

Today, in honour of her birthday, the White House was unveiling her official First Lady portrait. She’d had dozens of these photos taken of her in the Blue Room and the Red Room, all featuring different outfits and poses over the past few months until she and her father had narrowed it down to one they liked. The photo had been taken in July in the Blue Room and the first element she was drawn to was the piercing look of her eyes. It made her smile, because she could recognise easily that it was the same captivating stare of her father’s that she’d tried for years to emulate. The details of her clothing were as followed: she had a triple strand collar of baltic amber beads to cover her infamous scar, a necklace that had been bought in Lithuania the year before. Her dress was black, a tasteful square neck and sleeveless to show her muscles toned by years of rowing and killing. Abigail thought it made her shoulders and arms look very impressive, her pose elevated from dainty elegance to stately femininity. On her left wrist was the charm bracelet that Aunt Bee had given her so many years ago, since given extra links to accommodate for her growth; it had acquired many charms over the years: gold, silver, and enamel that all held some sort of symbolic relation to an event in her life. 

All in all, she thought it was a wonderful photograph of her that represented everything her father had wanted to achieve by appointing her to the position of First Lady. As she stood by her father’s side as it was unveiled, he leaned down to murmur, “You look beautiful,” as the audience applauded and the press corp’s cameras’s lights flashed.

*****

Will couldn’t say he was surprised when he was informed that Abigail wouldn’t be attending class that day. It was her birthday, after all, and that no doubt meant a slew of festivities, public functions to attend, and why would he even want to see her? She’d have her sweet smile and smug eyes, and he simply couldn’t deal with having to pay homage to her presence which he was certain the class would demand if she made an appearance. 

And despite himself, he couldn’t help but check the internet for progress of her day in between classes. Tattle-Politics was the natural source to rely on and sure enough, the homepage was chockfull of posts about Abigail; he began opening up various posts into different tabs and then clicked them open in chronological order. Up first was a link to the White House’s YouTube page that had Abigail’s first video project for the ‘FEED AMERICA’ campaign; she looked pleasant, kind, and casual on camera and when he glanced down to the information box below the video, he was surprised to see what the menu for the video was: a chicken noodle casserole with a side salad. That had been the first meal he’d ever made for them.

Something inside him ached, unable to determine if she was trying to communicate with him or mock him. He quickly closed out the video and opened the next tab. The release of her official White House portrait. Oh, she looked so confident and beautiful; every ounce of Lecter grace and charm was radiating from her and he couldn’t help but feel relieved that she didn’t look like a child. He right clicked the photo and saved it to his laptop—he might still be angry with her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t proud of her and her status in the American political sphere. She was his human-monster fooling a world of wolves. 

The next tab revealed a slightly more interesting post: speculation about whether or not the Papal See would grant her the Lecter’s family title of ‘countess’. Apparently Lounds had contacted experts who were weighing in heavily on both sides of the argument—some speculated that simply based on her works within the church, she as eligible to receive the title regardless, much as Rose Kennedy, Hannibal’s adoptive grandmother, had. The article contained a link to the National Catholic Magazine’s website and he opened that as well, looking over the page briefly; the National Catholic Magazine’s online editors had posted a letter to her for her birthday of open encouragement to maintain her faith and good works in the community, that she had created a global impact on young Catholics everywhere that good deeds counted, were noticed, and appropriately honoured and that if the Pope sought to give her a title, they would be so happy for her.There were many mentions of the people praying for Abigail’s happiness and continued existence within their religion. It was sweet, but she was someone who’d participated (gleefully) in many serial killings—Will doubted she gave a shit what they thought about her. 

“Going to need a lot more than prayer for those two,” he murmured as he closed the tab.

He considered briefly at looking at her photo again, to see the warmth of her smile while she looked into his eyes, but decided it was too risky to open it up again now that Molly had arrived to co-lecture with him. He imagined he could feel the beginnings of a fever and quickly downed some ibuprofen, ignoring the burning feeling of the invitation to her birthday dinner in his briefcase. Molly tried to sneak in some gossip about Abigail before their class started, but he simply gave her a weak smile and tuned her out. 

*****

“Your first episode went well,” Mrs Madchen told Abigail as she sat at her desk, glancing over various cards and congratulations that had been sent over to the White House so far. 

She raised an eyebrow, confused. “First episode?”

“The cooking show,” Georgia clarified as she sorted out more cards.

“Oh.” She’d forgotten about it completely. “Did it?”

“Lots of ‘thumbs up’!” Beth Lebeau told her, taking one of the flower arrangements from Abigail’s desk; she was placing them around the office at others’ working spaces and side tables.

“And the negative comments?” Abigail asked, setting a card aside from Sidwell Friends. 

Georgia looked uncomfortable and was quick to avoid saying anything that might ‘upset’ her. “Oh, well, I’ve not really read those…”

Abigail wasn’t offended by the thought of people not liking what she did, couldn’t care less that they might hate her because of her father. “But they’re there. How are people responding to them?”

“Well, you definitely have your own fanclub. Team Abigail. Or maybe Team First Lady. Anyway, they’re coming to your defense,” Georgia reassured. 

“What did you think of the episode?” Abigail asked, studying the women around her. 

Georgia gave her a thumbs up. “I liked it. You seemed really happy in front of the camera.” 

Beth Lebeau smiled enthusiastically. “And you made me feel like I could cook the casserole, too. It seemed realistic.”

“Good.” Abigail nodded her head and suddenly found herself for a loss of word, so she just echoed herself. “Good.”

Mrs Madchen patted her shoulder in what Abigail assumed was a motherly fashion. “You should be really proud. I can’t wait to see the next one.” 

*****

It was customary for the Secret Service to pool money to buy the President and First Family a small gift for their birthday, a gesture that reflected their opinion of the ones they had to protect. For Hannibal Lecter’s birthday and first day as President, they’d purchased a pair of gold double-panel cufflinks that had the Presidential Seal on them—something tasteful, simple, and befitting a man who’d been inaugurated. For the First Lady, however, they’d splurged on something a little more personal: a special gold brooch had been made with the Secret Service’s insignia clasped in a dove’s beak as it flew upwards, a small pearl clutched between its feet. They’d commissioned Ann Hand, known as the nation’s jeweler, to create the brooch, just as they’d asked her to make the cufflinks for the President. Her work was tasteful and simple, two qualities whom everyone knew the Lecters could appreciate. 

Abigail had been gracious and generous and just enough of a rebel against her father’s strict and refined ways that they’d wanted something extra impressive for her, something that showed they were proud to keep her safe. Barney was happy to bring her down to the Secret Service office that morning under the guise of retrieving the latest update to their day’s security itinerary; as always, she was very friendly and respectful to everyone, thanking them repeatedly for their birthday wishes and he had her seated at the desk he shared with Jimmy Price; a card that everyone had signed was produced and presented to her, and she read it over with a smile; they’d had the calligrapher’s office make the card, the number ‘18’ illuminated with flowers in muted pastels. At this point the agents in the room had come in closer to watch her accept what they’d bought for her. Next, Barney removed the small box containing her brooch from the shared desk and handed it over to he; she looked genuinely surprised that she was being given a gift and when she opened the top she let out an enthusiastic noise. 

“This is awesome!” she said loudly and all of the agents let out laughter and claps that they’d found something she actually liked. “I love it! I’m going to put it on right now.” As she took it out of the box and pinned it to her jacket’s lapel, she gave everyone a beaming smile. “Seriously, I love it. Thank you so much. Everyone.”

Barney rest a hand on her shoulder as the agents clustered around them for a group photo; it was natural to develop a good relationship with the person an agent was assigned to protect and Barney had certainly had his share of less-than-pleasant assignees, but the young First Lady certainly was someone special.

On the count of three, everyone loudly said, “Cheese!” and the agent taking the photo with his phone gave a thumbs up that it had turned out properly. 

*****

There was one last place to visit before she left for Baltimore: the Oval Office. Her father was highlighting passages from the defense budget at his desk and when she entered the room, Miss Mapp politely excused herself, wishing Abigail a happy birthday, which Abigail graciously accepted. Agent Katz grinned at her and left the room as well, allowing she and her father privacy.

She sat down on the edge of his desk; while the gesture might appear rude, she knew that she and Aunt Bee had been granted the privilege to sit close to him in this informal manner, a way for them to demonstrate their importance in front of others and from the way the official White House photographer had been lurking around this morning, she also suspected he allowed it because it would lend for a very casual ‘candid’ moment, as he’s left the office door to the private hallway and Will’s office open. 

“Has Will called?” she asked quietly. 

“No, he hasn’t.” His finger touched over her new brooch, a gesture both pleased and investigatory. “But there was something hand delivered this morning from the Maryland governor’s office.” 

He pulled his hand away and retrieved an envelope from his top desk drawer. Inside the envelope addressed to her was a very tasteful birthday card and a pair of tickets to the Meyerhoff. As she read over the letter around the tickets, she learned that one was for her and one was for her father, so that the Lecters could join himself and his assistant Franklyn to an opera. She was a little surprised at the gesture, but she supposed with all that Aunt Bee and her father had done to ensure strong political footholds for Budge, this type of gift was to be expected. 

“Governor Budge and Franklyn want us to join them for Madame Butterfly on the thirtieth. I could wear that new dress that was sent over last week,” she told him, picturing herself in the attractive formal gown that an up-and-coming Florida designer had created for her. 

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to attend.” She suspected he was trying to deter her and bring the conversation to a close, but she thought it might be nice to get out of the house and into familiar territory. 

“I’d like to go. If I have your permission.” Maybe she’d be able to use the fortune of a birthday to get her way. 

He raised an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that you would accompany Will and I to Hyannis Port for Thanksgiving.”

Oh, she’d forgotten completely about Thanksgiving. 

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” she apologised, embarrassed she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

But then to her surprise, he gave her a calculating look and informed her, “I shall consider it.”

Certain that he was calculating some sort of way to use this situation, she simply made a her gratitude known and she was certain that he was now planning for something, to make the situation useful for himself—though if he’d be using the governor or her was not clear.

“Thank you,” she said, handing the tickets and let over to him. 

Once excused, she stood outside the office by the Roosevelt Room and waited for Barney to join her; he was in the middle of discussing a security strategy with two other agents whom would be on the special detail today. Her own entourage had dispersed to prepare their last minute errands before the Secret Service declared them ready to leave. Georgia was standing beside her, texting somebody and Abigail, knowing that no one would notice, decided to lean back against the wall, using relaxed posture that her father would consider sloppy; swallowing down her smile to enjoy the casual position, she observed the casual sub-current that existed—aides talking to one another in the hall, staffers drinking coffee while they balanced large stacks of files, Secret Service roaming in pairs while they sought out any potential dangers. It was strange to consider that she would never be one of these people, that she would never have a brain that wasn’t filled with death and consumption, that she would always know what it looked like to take a life, what it tasted like when freshly cooked liver was in her mouth, what it felt like to watch someone finally realise she was going to be their cause of death. But it was also a nice feeling, to know that she was so distinct from them. That within the Oval Office was a man who felt the same way as her.

Someone familiar was walking down the hall and eyebrows raised upon seeing her. Standing up straight, she offered a small smile, inviting him to speak to her.

“Oh hello, Dr Suttcliffe,” she greeted as he came to stand before her.

“First Lady.” He proceeded to add, “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” She turned to her assistant and said casually, “Georgia, would you grab me a coffee? I can talk with Dr Suttcliffe while I wait.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll be back in just a second.” She hurried off with a smile. 

“So what did you get me for my birthday?” she asked once the other woman was out of listening range; she wasn’t worried what her agents might hear—it wasn’t like her sex life was a secret from them.

“I have twenty minutes I can spare this afternoon,” he said quietly 

She could live with that. “Fine, but you’ll be doing all the work.”

He stood up a little straighter, as though he was really being put upon, but nodded in agreement. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The both spotted Georgia returning at the same time, so she quickly told him. “Text me.”

As she watched him walk away, she allowed herself a small shrug. It would be boring and for the most part unimpressive, but considering he was the easiest way to get anything physical in the White House, she was willing to take what she could get.

Georgia returned and handed her a to-go cup of coffee from the secretaries’ break space. “Ready to go?”

She nodded. “Ready.” 

****

Abigail gave a quick speech in front of the BSHCI with the director of the hospital to the news agencies following her for the day, about what an honour it was to get to spend her birthday with a portion of society that most people overlooked and disregarded; she hashed out the canned lines of ‘empathy’ and ‘understanding’ and ‘compassion’ that made her look like a soft-hearted president’s daughter and that possibly she was subconsciously saying that she forgave Garrett Jacob Hobbs for what he’d done to her and her mother. The White House press entourage followed her every move, snapping so many photos that the cacophony of shutters sounded like fire crackers; the director led her on a tour of most of the facility, introducing her to staff and various prisoners that had shown promise of recovery. She shook many hands, and offered smiles and words of support to the patients dressed in orange jumpsuits, most of whom looked apprehensive at the cameras and Secret Service agents surrounding her.

As Mrs Madchen had told her, Georgia was not in attendance, and Mrs Madchen herself was acting as both assistant and Chief of Staff for the visit. She looked on edge and Abigail reassured her with a gentle squeeze on her forearm and a large grin. It was exciting! It was fun! She’d already had to surrender her new brooch back to Barney because she wasn’t allowed to have anything sharp on her person. Wasn’t that the kind of thrill everyone wanted?

After the tour concluded, she was brought back to the hospital’s cafeteria and when the press were given five minutes to take photos of her in her cafeteria uniform and serving mashed potatoes onto the trays, they were escorted out for the day. She continued spooning the large globs of mashed potatoes onto the trays that would be delivered to each prisoner’s cell for lunch time and she considered asking if the food had been made from potato flakes, but she wasn’t sure if that was classist, so she kept her mouth shut, instead listening to the other workers talk to her about their job. 

One unusual part about today’s lunch was the inclusion of gluten free, low sugar cupcakes that the White House kitchen had made the evening before in honour of her birthday. She’d already tried one last night and thought they tasted okay—nothing spectacular, but good enough that if she hadn’t had an actual dessert in years, she would enjoy it. Lemon-flavoured with an icing that had been tinged a pale pink with the juice of crushed strawberries and raspberries, she had to admit she was proud to subject others into celebrating her arrival to the hospital and into adulthood. She usually avoided gluten-free knockoff foods, but they had to be conscientious about prisoners’ needs. All in all, they were edible.

By the time the last trays had been distributed, it was time to wash the first ones, that had been returned to the kitchens. There was an industrial dishwasher in one corner that washed and sanitised a dozen trays at a time in two and a half minutes, leaving Abigail to assist in wiping them dry with a threadbare towel. Quietly biding her time until she’d be allowed to see Uncle Abel, she listened to one of the kitchen workers proudly regale the time he’d met her father while he still worked at Kick’s. She’d heard variations of this story for years now—her father had been distinct enough to be remembered as the polite man with a heavy accent who’d properly diagnosed whatever affliction they’d suffered from. She’d always found that so interesting when everyone saw him, they merely faced a well-dressed, well-educated man. And when she saw him, he was a god, surrounded in a nimbus of light, the all giver of love and control. Perhaps one day people would talk about her as a plain person while the loved ones in her life felt awe and fear in her presence. 

*****

For Ardelia, the First Lady’s birthday brought about different sides of the White House she’d never seen before. Various offices in the West Wing had passed over gifts and cards to her so that she could give them to Georgia Madchen; in fact, she’d brought cards from her own mom and aunt, and herself, both of which were scanned for any traces of bio/chemical weapons, and once cleared were added to the stack of mail to deliver to the East Wing. The official rules for giving gifts to the First Family were very strict and memos had been passed around back at the beginning of October reminding everyone politely that charitable donations in the First Lady’s name were always welcome, that flowers would be photographed and then donated to various soup kitchens around town, and cards would be inspected prior to delivery, but were always a nice gesture. Close friends of the Lecters were naturally excused from those rules and Ardelia had debated for two weeks if she was close enough to the First Family to be expected to give the First Lady apresent; she finally made a fifty dollar donation to the animal shelter she’d adopted her parakeets from and slipped the donation card into her birthday card envelope. Her mom and aunt had decided that on the weekend they would both serve at their church’s homeless shelter. 

That morning when Ardelia went up to the Residence to brief the President on his day, the First Lady had already left to attend to matters in the East Wing and the President was washing the dishes. She brushed Winston as she ran through the schedule and then tied a large red bow that the President had on the kitchen counter onto the dog’s leather collar. Winston dutifully trotted along side them as they made their way to the West Wing; one part of her job that she really did enjoy was assisting in the care of the First Family’s dog, as her apartment building had a strict ‘no pet’ policy. Not that the Lecters were negligent in their ownership of the well behaved dog—it was just an intense balancing act of the First Family not always being home and she filled in where it was needed. 

President Lecter did enjoy following a strict routine—the problem was it wasn’t always the official one the White House and Jack Crawford had planned for him. Subject to change at his whim, she’d learned never to expect the day to go completely as the West Wing wanted; the President was a man of absolute control and she could tell that having these little rebellions against what was expected of him were cathartic. And he’d never completely dropped major plans without warning.

Until today. Unusual packages with ‘diplomatic pouch’ statuses began to arrive at the White House, items that would not be unsealed or investigated even by the Secret Service. The first one had been a cooler chest, which was surprising, but not entirely shocking to Ardelia, who immediately asked the President where it was to be taken. With the start of a smile on his lips, he informed her that the cooler, along with the additional packages that would be showing up. He revealed to her that the boxes bearing the ‘diplomatic pouch’ waivers on their sides contained ingredients for the extravagant based dinner for the First Lady.

Once the First Lady’s portrait had been released to the public (and it was _really_ nice), the President had stopped down in the West Wing for a few minutes to check in on everyone and to receive any messages; much like she could sense the incoming of a storm, she could feel something was prepared to happen, so she made sure she trailed behind the President, unsure if he wanted her to stay at her desk in the secretaries’ quarters or if she was supposed to continue with her duties as assistant. And then President Lecter announced he would be taking the rest of the day off to cook for his daughter’s birthday dinner, which caused an immediate upheaval of the system in place; Jack Crawford tried unsuccessfully to convince the President to turn over the preparation details to the White House chefs, but Lecter very politely declined the option, instead inviting Ardelia to accompany him to the First Family’s kitchen. As she passed a very disgruntled Crawford, she was only able to offer a shrug.  

Upstairs, she was sat at the kitchen counter on one of the bar stools, simply watching the President prepare food. She’d let her hair down, enjoying the weight of her twists resting on her shoulders and upper back, and as she glanced down at her phone once more to check for any call or message Will Graham might have left regarding his attendance tonight, she considered the food being brought into the kitchen, all which seemed extravagant and definitely expensive, considering it was all being imported from various parts of the globe. She also wondered if Abigail actually liked all these foods or the President was simply looking for an excuse to cook elaborately—everyone knew he used to host dinner parties, but now that he lived in the White House, that had ceased. 

And speaking of parties, she found it uncomfortable to keep referring to the night’s grand event as a ‘party’; the President had informed her it was just dinner with the possibility of Will Graham showing up. Ardelia was pretty sure her definition of ‘party’ was of the classic sense that everyone else defined ‘party’ as—balloons, streamers, confetti, _people_. Abigail’s birthday dinner didn’t sound like a party at all and Ardelia wondered if this was the kind of event Abigail actually preferred, and that the President called it a ‘party’ out of consideration for his daughter. Or maybe it was the opposite and now that the First Lady was no longer considered a child, she was expected to do more ‘grown up’ things, that parties were for children and that she was to be refined now. If Ardelia got the chance later, she would evaluate the First Lady’s response to the question _‘How was your party?’_ to figure out which answer was correct. 

And as she sat in the kitchen, her thoughts seemed to centre around three themes: firstly, if she’d been told last year that today she’d be in the President’s kitchen while he prepared dinner, she wouldn’t have believed it. Secondly, every time she visited her family on Sunday, her sisters and mom kept pointing out how ‘handsome and single’ the President was, and while she’d never considered his looks prior to working at the White House, she was definitely in agreement that Hannibal Lecter was a very good-looking man. Older good-looking man. Thanks, but no thanks. Third and lastly, he was cooking up some weird shit for a teenager’s birthday. These thoughts were mostly centred around the fact that he’d just finished with a small plate that had hors d’oeuvre involving bird legs with the taloned feet still attached. She thought the bird legs sticking upright was strange, and then was embarrassed when the President smiled at her expression; he assured her that part of the fun in consumption was the aesthetics. She couldn’t imagine what aesthetics those were. 

He even had her taste the filling of the little pie the bird legs would rest in, the spoon held to her mouth. She approved of the sweet and rich taste, considering the sweet fig and the buttery pecans. While she dwelt on the filling and tried to think of something clever to say about the flavour, he removed a cantaloupe sized watermelon. That was _a cube_. As she marveled at the unusual shape, dropping the spoon onto the saucer that held her cup of coffee, the President explained ’square’ watermelon were a specialty from Japan, that he’d always valued their compact shape, and that the growing climate made them taste subtly different than their counterparts found here in America, which were out of season anyway, and would have a bland, watery flavour. As he began to chop the melon into cubes, he asked her about her career plans; she told him of how she’d always wanted to go into law enforcement, something in either the private or government sector, not really the police officer or state trooper route. Perhaps a federal agent of some sort—once her time as assistant was over, of course, she added politely, needing to make it clear that she was grateful for such an amazing job in the first place. The President smiled to that and assured her that her job wasn’t in jeopardy; she nearly asked if Will Graham might possibly want it back and what then, but didn’t, deciding to focus on the here and now. 

The weird bird leg mini pies were set in the fridge and he moved onto heating things on the stove; she made a few passing comments on the New Jersey 2013 gubernatorial race, the weather, and that she needed to download the latest Apple update for his iPad, just to fill the silence, but he barely made more than a nod in response to her talking, so she decided to simply drink the coffee he’d served her and hope that he would pick a topic to speak about. It wasn’t until the melange of wonderful scents drifting from the stove and he was slicing prosciutto razor thin that the mood of he room changed from work focused to something more relaxed. President Lecter was in the process of dictating a text to one of the numerous Kennedy cousins who’d texted a quick question about how to properly replicate a recipe for butter cookies and once she’d finished typing it, she saw that he’d been forming small roses with the meat and placing them atop the watermelon cubes on a chilled marble cutting board; one of the prosciutto roses was plated and he adorned it with a large leaf that reassembled oversized mint, and then drizzled a light pink sauce around it.

“For you,” he presented, placing the food in front of her.

He was very charming and as she reminded herself that he was someone’s boyfriend, she couldn’t help but wish this was flirting. Was it flirting? She took a bite of the rose, trying to decide if the President was the type of man to flirt with his assistant and if he was, was it that weird banter that sometimes happened between people who worked together and involved more smiles than usual? Or was this the more serious ‘I’d like to have an affair’ flirting? She regarded him hesitantly as she took the second bite that finished off the rose; she supposed she wouldn’t mind flirting a bit with him. What was she even thinking? He was the President, her boss! And he had a boyfriend!

“Something on your mind, Miss Mapp?” he asked whilst he put the watermelon and prosciutto in the fridge. 

“May I ask you a question?” she asked, the first thing that came to her mind to distract herself from thinking her weird thoughts. 

He had removed a flank of beef from the fridge and set it down on a wood cutting board, then gave her his undivided attention. Shit, she had to ask something good and she was completely unprepared—opportunities like this were once in a lifetime.

“You’ve done a lot of things that other politicians are too shy to commit to,” she said, the words filling the space instinctually. 

His eyebrows raised slightly. “Is there question, Miss Mapp?”

She hoped she hadn’t made it sound as though she was accusing him of anything and she quickly apologised. “Sorry—what I meant was, do you ever worry you might be too edgy for today’s political arena?”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been accused of being too ‘edgy’.” He looked as though he was fighting a larger smile than the one he was currently showing and he selected a sharp knife to cut the meat with. “No, I do not worry. Life is brief. The worst that can happen to me is death and as the late President Kennedy once said, _‘a man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on’_. If I am assassinated, I become a martyr. I’m sure that my enemies may try to embroil me in scandal, but I’ve been fortunate that untruths don’t seem to stick to me.”

“So you aren’t afraid?”

His eyes met hers. “Are you afraid?”

She thought about her words carefully. “I could lose my job for what I believe in. My voice is a single voice, while anything you say holds the weight of every American who voted for you. It’s a lot harder to stand up to a person who has all of those voices behind them. All I have to do is say the wrong thing and that would be it—I’d be blacklisted from speaking on those platforms again.” 

He gave a small nod. “Honesty is a trait that many people fear. To hear someone’s truths is uncomfortable because it forces you to face your own.”

She nodded her head. “That’s true.”

“If it was known that I am in a relationship with Will, it would hold many politicians in clandestine homosexual relationships accountable for their own deception. It will force many so-called allies of the equality movement to see if they are really as accepting as they believe themselves to be.”

“Do you want people to know about yourself and Mr Graham?” She felt a sudden hope that if he said yes, it would be safe to talk to the President about her own secret. 

“I do enjoy the luxury afforded to us by having the privacy to pursue our lives together without the interference of others. But Will is a fascinating man and I am honoured to have such a unique relationship with him; at times I do wish that others knew of the privilege I have.” He removed another testing spoon from the dish towel they were resting on and stirred the pot of soup stock that had began to steam. “But one day soon I will not have to hide our relationship together.”With the spoon, he scooped up a small amount of the stock and held it out to her. “How does this taste?”

She opened her mouth as he held out a spoon and as she nodded her approval of its flavour, it occurred to her that perhaps her questions had been a little too personal and this was the politest way he could manage to shut her up. Embarrassed, she decided that when she spoke next, it would only be about the food.

*****

“Abel Gideon is a psychopath, a very dangerous narcissist,” the director of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane started as he leaned back against his desk and eyed every agent in the room.

Abigail had heard those diagnoses before and after looking through a copy of the DSMin her father’s library at home, she actually thought he sounded more like the diagnose for Borderline Personality Disorder, but then, she wasn’t a professionally trained psychiatrist and could only speculate at what went on in his mind. But if there was one thing she knew to be true, Abel Gideon would never in a million years hurt her; despite this, no one in this room was particularly interested in putting her in a social situation with a man who’d killed three people. She was fairly confident that the hospital’s director was trying to scare her or her agents out of going through with the matter, but she wasn’t going to back down. This was her birthday present to herself. 

“There are rules, of course,” he continued. “Do not approach. Do not accept anything, don’t tell anything personal. Do not touch.” 

How unfair! What was the point of a visit then?

“Abel Gideon is family,” she expressed in a pained tone. “I can’t not be personal with him. Or not touch. I’m not trying to sneak him anything.”

“It’s for your safety,” the director insisted.  

“Uncle Abel would never hurt me—that’s absurd.” She couldn’t imagine a scenario where he’d ever turn against her. “Never—he’d never hurt me.”

“Abel Gideon has an unhealthy fascination with you.” This earned a hum of agreement from the Secret Service in the room.

“It’s not unhealthy if I’m the only person who talks to him,” she pointed out. “I know I’m the only person he receives mail from. Wouldn’t you focus on the only person who’s talked to you for ten years?” She tried not to let her expression seem too much like a pout or helpless immaturity.

“He’s very manipulative,” he countered. 

“He can’t manipulate me. There’s nothing for him to gain. I didn’t come to grant him favours. I just wanted to share some time and cupcakes with him. The only reason I’m even allowed to do this is because it’s my birthday.”The balance between competent First Lady and eager pseudo-family member to Abel was a very fine line to walk, and she quickly reigned the conversation back into something that sounded more professional. “Doctor, I have insight into Abel that most psychologists don’t. Years of letters back and forth with him, memories of him from when I was much younger. And I’m not implying I know him better—I just…I know that he won’t try to hurt me. He won’t do anything to jeopardise the only contact he has to the outside world.” Her hands hand been resting in her lap and she turned them palm up, a physical gesture meant to show that she was still deferring to his better judgement, pretending that he was still allowed to deny her. “I’m not trying to give him special attention. And I know that it’s not hurting the funding you’re getting from Governor Budge. The state likes it when big name people visit their local facilities. I like what I see here. I’m sure that everyone would love to see that you’re making progress with the ones society considers disposable.”

She hoped that he didn’t take it as a threat, because it wasn’t one (yet). His shoulders slumped a little in defeat, but he gave her an impressed look. “Well, you certainly are clever.” He opened one of the drawers in his desk and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of something she could assume to be whiskey. He glanced up at her and she gave the smallest of encouraging nods. He poured a small amount of the alcohol into the two cups and handed one over to her. She accepted it and he raised his glass to her. “Salut.”

Her smile broadened and she raised her glass as well. “Salut.” 

After the drink she assumed was to celebrate her birthday and the impending funding for the BSHCI that she’d implied, she was led down into a basement where the most dangerous of the prisoners were kept. She’d insisted prior to the visit that the tour to Uncle Abel’s cell would be part of the tour and bar an emergency, a requirement of her visit. Years ago, she’d received a letter from Abel describing his new residence and over the course of his incarceration, she’d grown to add her idea of what the cell and hallway looked like within her mind palace, a place to hold the childhood memories that held him. It already felt warm and familiar because it was a place that kept him safe and away from anyone who might want to be close to him, too.

“Any misbehavior and he has to go back to his cell, no exceptions,” the director told her, as though he wanted to emphasise exactly what everyone expected Abel to do.

“I understand.”

The director continued talking about how Uncle Abel hadn’t even been informed that she’d be visiting, as his therapist didn’t think it would be healthy for him to dwell on her, nor did they want it known by the hospital’s residents that he was going to have very special visiting hours, a thought that warmed her heart. Of course Abel deserved privileges that no one else could provide—that’s what made her such a good person.

The basement hallway was lit, but the stone walls absorbed the light and Abigail felt as though the walls were closing in on them; she’d never been claustrophobic, but the further down she travelled and the more security checkpoints they reached, the less she liked it. The cells contained those whom the state considered the worst of the worst. Abel, she was told, was at the very far end of the hallway and she didn’t want to walk by the other very scary inmates, she didn’t have to, she could wait right here at the barred entranceway. But in a bold and confident tone (because this was so amusing), she told the director, guards, and her agents that she was willing to walk by them. The director didn’t look pleased, but simply told her to keep looking forward until they reached Abel’s cell, not to respond to anything that was said to her, and that she wasn’t supposed to go past the yellow line painted on the floor, a rule that included the agents. 

As they walked, she found that it wasn’t nearly as exciting as she’d expected: the men housed in the cells were quiet and glaring at them; none of them exhibited the glamour she’d come to expect in her world. They didn’t look like caged tigers—they looked like rabid dogs waiting to be euthanised. 

The man in cell second before Abel’s was standing curiously at the bars, watching their procession and upon seeing her, pressed his face against the bars, hissing, “I can smell your _cunt_.”

She raised an eyebrow and tried not to sneer as she continued walking past. “I highly doubt that.”

The man’s tongue curled out suggestively and she gave him her most wicked smile in return; if he ever got out, she’d personally hunt him down and skin him alive—it would be hilarious. Barney grabbed her upper arm tighter than necessary and pulled her along down the hall—she didn’t have to look at his face to know that he was giving her a disapproving look. The other agents moved in a bit closer and she hoped that the man’s words wouldn’t be reason for them to abort the visit. But soon enough they were past him and waiting before the empty cell between Abel’s and the man who’d spoken to her. She waited off to the side as the head of the institution to announce her presence.

“Abel, you have a visitor.”

“A visitor? Don’t tease me, George.” His voice sounded the exactly as she remembered. 

“She came all the way from Washington DC to see you.” The guards around them looked worn-out and the director continued in a thin tone. “The Honourable First Lady Abigail Lecter.”

As he was a man who could appreciate a flair for dramatics and a hint of performance, Abigail stepped into view. 

“Hi, Uncle Abel,” she greeted as though she’d merely decided to surprise him at the office.

He lifted his head from the pillow, delighted and disbelieving. “Abigail!”

She couldn’t hold back the grin and started to take a step forward when he got off the bed, but Barney’s hand grasped her shoulder firmly and prevented her from getting any closer. 

“Put your hands on the wall so you can be shackled, Gideon—you know the rules,” one of the guards drawled out, poorly masking the frustration in his tone.

Uncle Abel gave her a small shrug and a sunny smile before doing as he was told. They were all guided up to the facility’s rec room where two chairs and a small table had been neatly arranged; on the table were a few boxes of board games that had been stacked. She took her seat at the table, watching as Abel was manouvered to the seat that had been bolted to the floor with rings to have his shackles attached. Frowning, she looked to the director and the guards.

“He won’t hurt me. It’s okay.” When no one moved to change the situation, she made sure that her eye contact directly with the director. “Please? With all these agents and guards?”

Barney looked like he wanted to say something, eyeing her, but the the director nodded his head slowly and the shackles around Abel’s feet were removed. His handcuffs remained on and they sat down, quiet but smiling at one another. Once the guards were out of the way and the director had left the room, they instinctually moved into an embrace, careful not to leave their chairs. 

“Oh, Abigail. You’ve come for me.” Abel looped his bound hands together around her right side as her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“How are you, Uncle Abel?” she asked as she pressed her cheek against his affectionately. They were both so touch-starved that she couldn’t help but need for the hug to last longer than usual.

“I hate this place,” he murmured as his hands rubbed at her shoulder.

“Me, too,” she whispered, then pulled back.

He placed his hands on the tabletop. “I wondered why they allowed me to have the shave kit today. It’s a day early.” He tapped his fingers on the table and looked back over at her. “So, how are you today? Can I have the staff bring you anything?”

“Actually, I have a surprise for you.” She motioned for the attendant in the corner to push the cart over that had the two plated cupcakes she’d set aside for them.

As she took the desserts from the cart, he commented, “Cupcakes, how nice.”

She kept her tone nonchalant so as not to direct his emotions in any particular way. “They’re for my birthday.”

“It’s—oh! Oh, Abigail! Eighteen!” He turned to look at the guards. “Do you see this? The First Lady spending her eighteenth birthday with me?” He turned back to look at her. “Oh, my lovely girl. I haven’t bought you anything.”

“You don’t have to get me a present, Uncle Abel,” she promised as she handed him a paper napkin.

“I’m so embarrassed—not even a card. You’ll forgive me if I send you something belated?”

“I wouldn’t tell you no.” 

He leaned in and in a low voice conspired, “They have me drugged to the gills here. I never know the date.” His eyes darted to the guards and as he leaned back, he said loudly, “Oh, I can’t believe you’re an adult now. Where does the time go?”

She smiled and considered that she should have asked for more than the plastic dixie cups of water that had been set for them. “I was going to bring lemon-sticks—“

“Oh!” He looked very excited at the potential of receiving the traditional Baltimore treat. 

“But they wouldn’t let me bring the peppermint sticks because they were concerned you might sharpen it and use it as a weapon against me.” The desert was made by inserting a peppermint stick into a half of a lemon and she imagine the hospital security assumed he would suck on one end of the peppermint stick until it developed a pointed end, much the same way candy canes did. 

Abel rolled his eyes, snorting. “How droll.”

“I agree, but the cupcakes are decent.” 

“Lemon is such a good choice.” He took a long drink from one of the dixie cups, wiping his mouth off on his sleeve. “My head feels stuck full of cotton. It’s the sedative they gave me. Gives me mood fluctuations. Makes me a bit slower.”

“That’s terrible. To lose one’s mind. To have it stolen from you,” she said sympathetically. 

“It is. But I maintain an upbeat attitude.” He forced a resolute smile to his lips. “Otherwise they’ll have taken everything from me.”

“How practical,” she agreed.

“But this is so depressing for your birthday. Let’s talk about nice things.”

She actually enjoyed talking about the misery he was experiencing by living in the hospital, but was courteous enough to change the subject. “They unveiled my official portrait today. I’m still trying to decide where I want it displayed. Want to see?”

She didn’t wait for an answer and instead pulled out her phone, taking the opportunity to discretely check for any messages from Will. Finding none, she opened up her phone’s photo album and selected the last one she’d saved; the White House account, her office’s account, and the Oval Office account had triple posted a high-res image of her official portrait and she’d saved it. Turning the phone’s screen to Abel, she watched his expression as he studied the photo. 

“Oh, you look like a queen. I bet Kate Middleton wishes she could look like you.”

“Oh, stop,” she said, a blush reaching her cheeks. “No, don’t. It’s my birthday—I deserve to be spoilt.” She giggled as he teased,

“You’re so naughty.” Then he continued in a quieter tone. “But don’t worry—I haven’t told them a thing about how it was your idea to axe my in-laws.”

He grinned and winked, and she kept her voice as quite as possible as she informed him, “Actually, you alluded to it during the trial. I read it in the court transcripts.”

“Well, I couldn’t take all the credit.” Worried he might keep talking about a subject that the Secret Service would be too interested in, she gestured to the remaining cupcakes on the table. “Want another?”

“Thank you.”

She motioned for one of the attendants to refill their cups. “My pleasure.”

As the attendant brought a water pitcher over and poured them water, Abel asked through a mouthful of cupcake, “How is your father? Getting along all right? Does he have a competent staff?”

“Oh, I would say so.” 

“Your Aunt Bedelia gave everyone a stamp of approval? She always knows the right types to hire.” He paused as he swallowed. “Well, perhaps with the exception of myself.” He looked around the rec room suddenly, frowning. “Where are your photographers? Don’t you think you should have your photo taken with a former lieutenant governor? I’m not second guessing you, my dear, but I do think it would be good for your image.”

She was quiet for a moment, wondering whether he was so narcissistic or so drugged up to that he saw his political career as more important than the fact he had been convicted for killing three people. Abigail nodded her head slowly. “You’re right. Before I leave, I’ll have someone take a photo of us and I’ll have one sent to you.”

He stared at one of the armed security guards standing by the windows with a shotgun. “Very good. I won’t tell them it wasn’t your idea.”

“Thank you.” 

“Mmmff, delicious. Did you bake this?” He had a few small crumbs caught in his mustache. 

“No, they were made by the kitchen staff for the hospital staff and patients to enjoy.” God, gluten-free was _bland_. “But I had them save two extra just for you.” She leaned in conspiratorially and murmured, “I planned this whole thing just so I could spend the afternoon with you.”

His eyes widened and held the calculating edge they once did. “You didn’t.”

“I did. I enjoy our letters back and forth, but it’s not the same as a face to face meeting.”

He was silent, save for his tapping of his handcuffs on the table to make a small, repetitive clacking on the linoleum top. She watched him curiously, finishing the last of her cupcake before he spoke again. 

“You were the only light in my life for a very long time. When I was first named your father’s lieutenant governor, my marriage was going through a very rough patch. My wife wouldn’t let me divorce, my in-laws were constantly nagging at me about getting them out of bankruptcy…I was drowning.” His eyes lifted to meet hers. “And then I met you.”

“I remember that you had a desk in your office just for me so that when I came after school, I could do my homework and stay out of Daddy’s way. You always had a bowl of candy for me.” She remembered the pretty salt water taffies wrapped in colourful wax paper set out on his desk; he’d always smile and guess what flavour she’d pick. 

“Healthy candy. Because your father didn’t want you to have too much sugar.” Nostalgia overtook him and his voice held a soft tone that caused her own heart to seize as it was the way he’d talked to her when she was much, much younger. “Those afternoons were the reason I even bothered coming to work at that point. Seeing your smiling face. Knowing you looked up to me.”

She had never idolised him in the way he believed she had, but it didn’t hurt to allow him to think that. She had found him very interesting and useful, but nothing like her father or Aunt Bee, who were the most powerful people she’d ever met. 

“You were very helpful with my math homework. I learnt a lot from you,” she told him, the only thing she could think to say that wasn’t a direct lie; lying seemed as though it would be extremely cruel and a waste of their precious time together. 

“I used to schedule all of my meetings for the morning, so that I’d be free to work in my office with you when you arrived.” His fingers crumpled the cupcake wrappers, mashing the soft crumbs and moist paper together. “The arrangement worked very well for your father, too. He knew I was an excellent person to watch after you. All those evenings he worked later than he normally would, because I always offered to stay late, too. Just so I didn’t have to go home…” He was quiet again and his face displayed a range of emotions. She sipped her water, patiently letting him sort his thoughts out until he looked back up at her and said a little louder than before, “It means a lot to me that you came to visit. I hope I’ll be able to return the favour soon.”

Abel would never leave the hospital, Abigail knew that. A presidential pardon was the only way he’d get out, short of a prison break. And if he ever managed to escape, he’d probably not be taken alive. 

“I’ll have the whole house decorated for your arrival,” she promised, a commitment she’d never have to keep.

“And I’ll expect your father to cook for me, of course.”

“Naturally. We cook for all of our favourite guests.” 

Before his fantasy could continue any further, she noticed old scars on his wrists and she grabbed his jumpsuit sleeve. They had been hidden beneath his handcuffs and sleeves until this point, and she immediately pictured various horrible scenarios in which he’d received them: handcuffs too tight and bound in torturous positions; abuse under the guise of therapy; vindictive guards who wanted to establish their power over a man no one would believe. 

“Uncle Abel, are they hurting you?” she asked, quiet enough that no one else could hear her speaking. 

“Oh.” He glanced down at his scars. “Those are mine.”

Lowering her voice to a firm murmur, she told him, “If you are being mistreated or abused here, tell me now and I will get you transferred—“

“No, no—it’s just…a way of dealing. I wasn’t trying to do anything drastic. I just needed the distraction.”

Abigail’s thumbs rubbed over his wrists back and forth, understanding what it was he was trying to tell her without saying it openly.  

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I got to stay in the hospital wing for a whole week so they could monitor me—there were nurses I could socialise with,” he informed her, far too nonchalant to be genuine.

“Uncle Abel, were you listed as suicidal because of this?”

“I might have cut a little too deep on the right arm.” He looked pained. “It was an accident!”

“You can’t do this anymore. There are other ways.” She thought of how she tore out her own hair in secret at times. “What if I have your lawyer get you a meditation DVD that you can watch—no, don’t look like that!” She frowned. “They’ll call you crazy if you keep doing this.”

“Maybe I am.”

“You aren’t.”

Abigail was silent as she considered her own feelings towards him. Gently, he pulled his hands away from her, carefully hiding his wrists beneath his sleeves once more. Clearing his throat, he sat up straighter and requested that she tell him,

“Which one of those agents is the senior member of your detail? I need to talk to them.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I need to know you’re being protected. The world is a dangerous place. There have to be thousands of threats against you. I need to know they’ll not let you get taken or killed.”

Rather than argue, she looked to where Barney was waiting and called out, “Agent Matthews?”

As Barney approached their table, he gave an apprehensive look to Abel, directing his question to her. “Everything okay, Abigail?”

She nodded as Abel gestured to the chair across from his. “Please take a seat.”

“Barney, this is former Lieutenant Governor Abel Gideon. Uncle Abel, this is Secret Service Agent Barney Matthews,” she introduced cordially, as though she was accustomed to introducing murders to her protective detail on a regular basis. 

Barney gave the man an acknowledging nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Gideon.”

“Likewise.” Abel folded his hands neatly, as though he was conducting a very important interview. “I’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind. I am concerned about Abigail’s safety.”

“Certainly,” Barney agreed. Abigail was glad that her agent was willing to humour Uncle Abel.

“You scanned this facility? Made sure there weren’t any explosives?” When Barney nodded, Abel then asked, “And you screened all the employees? God knows state run background checks aren’t worth anything anymore.”

“We did.”

“And you made sure everyone’s holding cells were secure? The last thing we need is someone like Multiple Miggs to get ahold of her.”

“Who’s Multiple Miggs?” she asked curiously.

Abel glanced over at her. “My neighbor. He’s vile.”

“We checked the facility and found it to be secure enough for the First Lady’s safety during the course of her visit today,” Barney assured. 

“And you? When was the last time you took an accuracy test for your shooting? Or hand-to-hand combat training?”

Before Barney could reply, Abigail quickly interjected, “Uncle Abel, do you really think Daddy would allow anyone to protect me who wasn’t up to the highest available standards?”

“No. I suppose not. Thank you for your time, Agent Matthews,” Abel said with a cordial nod. 

“No problem. Nice to meet you, Mr Gideon.”

Barney stood from the table and his eyes met hers for a moment before he returned to his station along the wall. 

“Do you like him?” Abel asked, concerned.

She nodded and smiled to reassure him. “Barney’s great. I trust him completely. He’s one of the best agents the Secret Service has ever had. He used to be Chilton’s senior agent.”

“Why didn’t he go to your father?”

“After Miriam went missing, my previous agent was shuffled over to take her place. Barney was already in the process of retiring and when he heard that my head agent was being put on the Presidential detail, he decided to forego retirement to become my senior agent. He’s a very good at it—you have nothing to worry about.” She patted his hand reassuringly and decided to redirect the conversation. “Did you enjoy your lunch? I served the trays earlier.”

“What part did you do?”

“The mashed potatoes.”

“Oh, I could tell. They were my favourite part.”

She knew he was lying simply for the sake of appeasing her, but she played along. “Were they? Good.”

Abel nodded and stretched his neck. “I’ve been talking to my hack of a lawyer—he’s trying to get me television privileges so that I can watch your father’s speeches.”

“I could simply mail you the transcripts, if you’d like.”

“Not the same as watching them.”

“I’m not allowed to ask for any extras for you. It’s considered an unfair influence,” she reminded him. 

He winked at her. “Because no one would ever tell you ‘no’.”

“Exactly.” And while she had no intentions to ask for favours for him, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t ensure he was receiving the proper care he needed. “The medication…how badly is it affecting you? Because if it’s something serious, I can have my lawyer contact yours about arguments that can be made to get them to change prescriptions.”

He was quiet and his fingers plucked at the cupcake wrapper. “It’s like remembering something from your childhood, but you’re not sure if it’s your memory or a friend’s memory. And you realise, sadly, it’s just some photo in an old book.” His eyes were distant when he looked up, his attention on the far wall. “There are days I’ll find myself thinking about all the places I’ve been, all the people I’ve met and then I’ll come across a magazine clipping I’ve saved and realise it never happened to me at all—it was only something I’d read and stored away and dreamed upon.” His brow tightened. “I feel myself slipping away. I hardly know who I am anymore, except an abstract estimate based on what people tell me.”

She was certain that this was what the director had be referring to when he said Abel was manipulative, but Abel had the same haunted look Will had when he spoke about feeling of loss and betrayal; she didn’t care what anyone thought—Abel was telling the truth. 

“I wish I could share all the thoughts in my head with you. It’s like a wonderland,” she told him, imagining how he’d no doubt enjoy the many terrible and creative things she’d dreamed up for years. 

“I would like that.” His hand found hers once more and he glanced over at the board games stacked on the table. “Do you want to play?”

Abigail hated board games. “No, thank you. Want to listen to some music?”

With one free hand, she picked up her phone and he watched her curiously. “Oh, you have an mp3 player. How fancy.”

She scrolled through her songs and picked something soothing and classical. “How’s that?”

“You’re spoiling me. They’re only allowing this because of who you are,” he muttered, glancing over to attendants and guards.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t realise that I’m not supposed to.”

He swayed slightly in his seat. “Oh, I like this song.”

“Mmhmm, it’s a good one.” She supposed that he hadn’t actually listened to music in a while, possibly months, likely years. 

“Do you remember when your father was inaugurated and you asked me to dance?” he asked. “You were too adorable.”

For a moment she thought he meant when her father had become president, but she realised he was actually referring to when he’d been elected governor. She smiled, remembering how much she’d liked Abel; when he’d joined the gubernatorial campaign and help her dress her barbie dolls while they waited backstage for her father to complete his speech.

“You should have turned me down. I was a terrible dance partner,” she said, feeling a little embarrassed. 

“Nonsense, you were a child.” He gave her a hopeful look. “Would you dance with me?”

He glanced cautiously at the guards as he stood up; rifles were lifted from their safety positions and she stood too, pretending not to notice them.

“I’d be honoured to.” She paused for a moment to turn the volume up on her iPod and then moved around the side of the table.

He held her hands and their feet moved in small steps;the whole affair reminded her of the painfully boring and restrictive school dances she’d attended, where there were being watched with hawk-like intensity that nothing inappropriate was happening. She wondered if everyone in the room was wondering if he might try to kill her or if she would unwittingly provide him something contraband. 

“Are you getting enough exercise in here?” she asked curiously, studying his skin and coordination.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Probably not.”

“I’m sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

She nodded her head to the barred windows. “That you have to live like this.”

“It allows me to treasure our time together even more.” He smiled and lifted his hands so that she could spin along to the song.

They were quiet as they swayed together for the rest of the song and then as it ended, they returned to their seats. He seemed tired and relieved to sit back down, drinking the rest of his water from his cup. She had the orderly return with the pitcher of water and had more poured for Abel; flicking her finger over her phone screen, she selected more calming music that she enjoyed zoning out to when she had long flights. 

They sat in silence and she held his hands on the table, wishing there was more she could say, wishing there was more she could give him during the short time they had left. He hummed softly to the songs that were playing, staring at a clock on the wall. She pretended not to be interested on anything, but she was silently observing the security in the room, imagining how she would overpower the guards if she was the one incarcerated. When Abel spoke after a few minutes, she was startled out of her thoughts of gouging out eyes.

“Happy birthday, Abigail.” He kissed her cheek and when he pulled away, he had tears in his eyes. “You’ve grown up much too fast for my liking, but I’m excited to see where your future takes you. First Lady before you’ve even gone to college. How lucky you are.”

“It’s perfect for a résumé,” she said, finding that her smile felt bittersweet to offer. “

And then the door behind them opened and the director walked though, flanked by two more orderlies. It was obvious why they were there and that they were expecting Abel to put up a fight having to give up his temporary luxuries. 

“First Lady, visiting hours are over,” he said, sparing a glance at Abel, his smile tight.

She turned to look at Abel and wanted to mourn the end of their time together, but as the nation’s First Lady, she was stoic and continued holding his hands as they stood from the table; the Secret Service and the hospital’s guard began to close in on them, weapons ready as well as the additional restraints used for moving Abel around. Together they were quiet and she gave him a warm smile as his shackles were put back into place, feeling the anxiety as his hold on her fingers tightened. Her agents all moved with highly wound tension, happy that she would be leaving such a dangerous situation, worried that there was still a chance someone might attempt something. As they reached the doorway, Barney’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, a gentle but solid weight; she came to a still and Abel turned back to look at her.

“They’re not going to let me go back with you,” she said apologetically.

“This place is a shithole. I wouldn’t want you to go back down there, anyway,” he announced flippantly and then his look softened. “But don’t change a hair for me, not if you care for me.”

“I’ll always stay this way,” she promised.

He smiled then allowed himself to be led back to his cell. She didn’t linger, moving with her security detail back to the surface world; the White House Press wasn’t given a second glance as she was taken out to the waiting motorcade. Once settled into the armoured vehicle taking her back to the nation’s capitol, she pulled out her phone again to check if there was any message from Will about the night, or at the least, a message from her father that would be good news. But there was nothing and she turned the screen off, setting it in her lap as she looked out the window and gave a vacant nod of agreement to Mrs Madchen that the day had gone well. 

As they left city limits, a text arrived at her phone. It wasn’t Will. 

<<Afternoon free. Whenever u get back>>

A small, nearly bitter smile crossed her lips and she quickly typed back, <<One hour at third floor storage rooms>>

<<OK>>

*****

Abigail stepped out of the shower, drying her hair off as best she could before slipping on the robe she had hanging on the towel heater. One of the few things she hated about living in an old house was that there were certain alterations to the building that couldn’t be done. Advanced security features embedded in the walls and every electrical fixture? Check. Heated floors? No, that affected the historical integrity of the building. And her bathroom floors were freezing. Stepping from rug to rug, she made her way to the mirror above the sink and the heater; her hair was blown dry and straightened, and her makeup reapplied, so that she would be ready for the rest of the afternoon. This time she dressed in something different, a green dress that complimented the dove brooch and had a high enough neck that she didn’t have to cover her scar. 

Barney was waiting on one of the benches near her bedroom door, reading a magazine, which he folded and slipped into his jacket inner pocket as he stood up. “Ready to go back downstairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded and together they walked to the elevator. “Saw all your presents in the Yellow Room. Excited to open them?”

“I’m sure it sounds cheesy, but the only present I really want is Will.” She was quick to add, “Though I love the brooch.”

He smiled and nodded again. “I know what you’re saying. Do you think he’ll come?”

The usher at the elevator wished her a happy birthday and Abigail thanked her. When she and Barney were on the Residence’s main level, she replied.

“I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t. He knows how much it means to me. I can only turn eighteen once, right?” She touched her hair self-consciously, considering that momentarily that she would have to redress for the dinner later that night, that maybe Will would like to see her appearance formal instead of casual. The night had to be perfect for him, after all. “And I’ve already picked out a bunch of films he can chose from for us to watch in the theatre. I tried to pick out things I thought he might enjoy.” She glanced at him hopefully. “Why? Have you heard anything?”

He shook his head. “No, sorry.”

“You know, you can tell me if it’s a secret. I’ll still act very surprised,” she vowed. 

But he shook his head. “I promise if I hear anything, I’ll tell you.”

Abigail had hoped that her agent would have been able to help her and she sighed. “I should call him. He’s so busy with all his work—it might have slipped his mind for a moment.” She stopped walking and found her personal phone, quickly selecting Will’s contact. “Hi, Will. I’m calling to remind you that tonight’s my birthday party. I’m sure you already remember, but just incase you were distracted, it starts at five. We’ll have dinner first and then we can go down to the theatre to watch movies—there’s a popcorn maker in there that makes kettle corn. Daddy says the ushers will have it ready for us.” She cleared her throat. “So, you know, call me back when you can. Or Daddy. Or Georgia. Just to let us know when you’ll be coming over.” She gave a hopeful smile, knowing he’d hear it in her tone. “Okay, I love you.” She ended the call, not completely meeting Barney’s eyes. “It went to message. His phone was probably at the bottom of his bag.”

Barney didn’t seem so sure. “If he doesn’t show up, I don’t want you to get upset, okay?”

“He will. He loves me,” she said, absolutely certain of it.

Barney patted her shoulder; while her father hated any form of pity and she knew she shouldn’t accept that particular emotion from anyone, she couldn’t bring herself to want Barney to stop.

Directed to the Oval Office once more, she was left alone with her father, who was sitting at his desk. He straightened the single picture frame set next to the base of the desk lamp and naturally, her eyes followed the movement. In the frame was a 5x7 of her new portrait and she felt a blush on her cheeks as she smiled at him; that was the final confirmation she needed to know he was proud of the photo.

“How was Abel?” he asked, breaking her from her thoughts about herself. 

“He thinks he’s going to get out one day,” she informed him.

He leaned back in his seat, watching her closely. “Oh, how unfortunate.”

“But he liked the cupcakes and we were able to spend the time together discussing my own political career.” She lowered her voice. “You know, if we ever got caught, that’s where we’d end up. Locked into cages in a basement. Forgotten.”

He shook his head. “Never forgotten.”

She considered that kind of fate. “They wouldn’t let Will come visit us. We’d be trapped.”

“Would you rather die than be trapped?” There was a look in his eyes that unsettled her.

She considered that kind of life. If she could be locked up in a cell between Abel and her father, perhaps there were worse things. “I don’t know. Would you?”

“I would never allow anyone to deny us our freedom.” 

Abigail stared out the windows behind his desk, gazing at the trees and sky. “Will thinks we are trying to deny him his freedom.” Her father hummed in agreement and while she was certain she knew the answer already, she asked, “Has he called?” 

“He hasn’t. But there is still time.”

*****

Will stood in the campus bookstore, looking at the new releases by the front door; there were some fresh novels and GWU alumni papers that lined the display. He hadn’t bought a present for Abigail even though her birthday dinner was only a few hours away. He grimaced and felt his heart beating hard in his chest. Somewhere behind him, Matthew stood, watching everyone’s movements for his safety. Will hesitated, suddenly doubting his empathy as he thought what to buy her. What to get the girl who had everything. Oh, what to get the girl who could have _anything_.

*****

Eighteenth birthdays were supposed to be spent in fun, extravagant ways: Hannibal’s had been spent with Lady Murasaki in Paris, buying expensive curios and bespoke clothing, attending debut parties for Europe’s elite. Bedelia’s had been spent on a yacht where they’d pick-pocketed absolutely everyone aboard and later buried all the money and jewellery they’d stolen in Grandmother Rose’s garden. 

Hannibal had already planned years ago that they would spend the two weeks prior to Abigail’s collecting ingredients together throughout the Chesapeake area they roamed, the largest piece of work the Ripper would have ever done; he’d pictured creating a massive tableau in her honour, something that would have been a true masterpiece. Perhaps an entire living mural. Then he’d have hosted a coming of age party for her at the Meyerhoff, complete with banquet and performances by the orchestra. He would have presented her with grand gifts—artwork, jewellery, trips to various countries. It would be his chance to display to the world his triumph, his legacy. 

But instead, they were stuck in the White House.

Where other First Families had indulged in illegal substances as their White House forbidden fruit, Hannibal had chosen to obtain ingredients that required delivery in diplomatic pouches. A few fillets of minke whale from Iceland, a small container of Beluga caviar, one queen conch, and a pair of small ortolan were to be consumed tonight. Hannibal had made all of their favourites—exotic treats with expensive ingredients that were for the most part illegal. Endangered animals always tasted better. 

For hors d’oeuvres, he’d made a few small delicacies he’d served at parties previous and he’d favoured over others he created. Tenderly he’d formed prosciutto into roses that rested atop cubes of watermelon. There was a portion of marinated heart remaining in the freezer and once it had been defrosted, was ground and made into a tartare, then carefully spooned in the centre of a filo pastry nest. Strips of wagu beef had been rolled with minty shiso leaves to create a roulade. There was even a small platter that held squab drumsticks on fig and date tartlettes, their small claws extended upwards. 

On the table in the dining room, he’d arranged polished snail shells and blush pink roses around the serving trays, small candles lighting the space. It would be easy to go overboard with decorations, so he’d kept it simple, wanting his daughter to be the focus of the evening. And this evening, she looked exactly like the culmination of everything he’d ever wanted in a family member; she’d foregone her scarf, instead leaving her neck bare, and her clothes and jewellery were all in shades of light grey, which complimented his own ensemble of ecru. He’d seated her at the table, hand lovingly touching her cheek before retrieving the first course. 

He’d selected delicate, ambient music from various movie scores to play in the background; tonight would be a full course meal, five dishes that they would enjoy together to celebrate her coming of age. There were three bottles of wine chilling, each one perfect to compliment the food he’d made.

“Which would you like, my love?” he asked, ready to pour her a glass.

She shook her head shyly, not wanting the burden of picking incorrectly, and smiled at him, gesturing her hand to the three bottles. “Gentleman’s choice.”

He selected one and held it up; her face lit up when he showed her the bottle of Chateau d’Yquem he’d been able to source a number of years ago from a seller in Mexico, with a 1904 label. 

“Really?” She was well aware how special he considered that particular bottle.

“I think it would be only appropriate to drink it in your honour.”

After he sat down across from her, she glanced over at the spot Will usually sat at.

“Perhaps we should wait a few minutes? I’ve texted Will and I’m sure he’ll reply in a few minutes. To tell us that he’s on his way.” She nodded to him, her eyes filled with the innocent hopefulness that he hoped would never die. 

“We shall wait,” he said, a patient smile on his lips.

She smiled back and he could smell the anxiety within her—she’d never be able to fool him, despite what she thought. If she was still a child, he would force her hand and have the dinner start according to the proper schedule, but now that she was an adult, he thought it generous of himself to allow her to make the decisions for her dinner. After a very long five minutes, he was finished waiting and said,

“Why don’t we start our hors d’oeuvres?”

She nodded and while she didn’t look particularly happy, she was amicable to the plan and for fifteen minutes, their only interest was in consumption and the eye contact their beloved Will shared only with them.

Once they’d cleared their plates, Hannibal stood to take the plates, and to spare her the agony of trying to sneak contact, he suggested, “Why don’t you call him again while I retrieve the lambi?”

She nodded and as he collected their plates and the serving platter, she pulled out her phone. In the kitchen, he listened to her politely speaking to Will’s voicemail. He was disappointed but not surprised in the slightest that Will had made the choice not to come for Abigail’s dinner; the food Hannibal had created for the night was enough for two people, though if a third person were to join them, he’d have had enough for all of them. Though he’d known from the moment he’d woken that Will would not join them and he allowed himself a moment of dismay before he brought out the next course: a fragrant soup made of the Queen Conch, a Haitian lambi that made his mouth water; Abigail was not partial to seafood, which he blamed on her biological parents’ upbringing, so when he did find a recipe she liked, he was likely to cook it instead of one that he preferred. She ordered lambi a few times a year when they went out to eat at the French-Haitian restaurant in New York he’d discovered as teenager and still lived at home with Lady Murasaki and his uncle.  

For their entree were ortolans. Ortolans were served a few times a year in their household, a far less disgusting substitute to the chicken nuggets she’d begged him for once upon a time. Abigail had once been concerned if it was too cruel to eat an ortolan, but he had gently explained that the birds lived happy lives, being fed well until they were drowned. And wasn’t that nice? She had agreed and the matter was never brought up again. Tonight she showed absolutely no reservation in eating the one on her plate and in unison they placed the small bodies in their mouths and devoured. 

Their dish was covered with a dark blue veil that had small gold stars. An ortolan in days gone by might have suffered the cruel fate of being blinded so they would live in a state of eternal night, the time during which they fed themselves. More contemporary times had made the practice one where a bird simply lived in a darkened cage to fatten itself continuously; Hannibal had began a tradition of covering the dish before it was lit to symbolise the covers over the birds’ cages. He pulled the veil off the dish with a dramatic flourish and as she had every other time, she applauded enthusiastically. The alcohol was lit and the table was now host to a large, hot flame that cooked the birds to a crisp. 

“Perfect,” she declared once the fire was out and she’d swallowed the small morsel. 

Their entrée finished, he removed their plates to go cook the minke steaks. He could hear her leaving another message on Will’s voice mail, her voice quiet with desperation. He returned from the kitchen ten minutes later and she looked so beautiful sitting across the table from him; the candles were shorter now and cast different shadows across her face, leaving her soft edged and young. He presented her a plate and kissed the top of her head as he circled her chair to get back to his side of the table. 

She cut into the whale to reveal meat that was very red and exceptionally tender; whale was best kept incredible rare, cooked hardly two minute on each side at a very high heat and then dished for consumption. Grated ginger, a delicate miso coating, and the slightest hint of lemon were all the seasonings used to accent the rich flavour. What does whale taste like, you ask? The anger of whale conservationists, succulent and fatty. Hannibal watched as Abigail closed her eyes, savouring the meat as she chewed it slowly. He had been concerned that the meat might be less than perfect and if it passed her approval, then he was happy. 

“My favourite,” she admitted, once she’d swallowed and opened her eyes. 

She smiled at him and while he saw a level of sadness within them, she was suppressing it for his sake to maintain an enjoyable dinner. 

“I am glad,” he promised, taking a bite of the meat. 

Usually when they dined on this particular dish, often saved for the last day of school, they would make amused and disdainful comments about animal rights activists, until they were unable to look at their food without laughing, but tonight Abigail’s mind seemed to be so stolen by Will that there would be no jokes. 

“It is not too late for me to have a missile launched,” he told her as he dabbed a bit of grease from the corner of his mouth.

She raised an eyebrow, innocent surprise.

“I had hoped to gift you a body count for your birthday.”

At this, she smiled shyly and looked back down at her plate. “I wouldn’t mind postponing that gift until a later date.” 

“There is no expiration to the offer,” he assured her. 

This actually garnered a small laugh from her, the first genuine ease he’d seen from her this evening. They finished their minke in comfortable silence and as he collected their plates, she asked,

“Will you check to make sure Will hasn’t left a message on your phone? Maybe to surprise me.”

He nodded once. “Certainly. If you will be patient for a moment.”  

“Thank you so much.” 

With their dirty plates set to soak in the sink, he removed from the refrigerator the prized dessert he’d made earlier that afternoon. As it set on the counter, he checked his phone and found no new messages or mixed calls. That was fine. 

Slipping a single match into his pocket and carrying the birthday cake out into the dining room, he set it in the centre of the table. As he removed the match out of his pocket, Abigail held up a hand. 

“Maybe we should wait a few minutes.”

“Yes. We shall wait ten minutes. “Perhaps you should call,” he offered quietly.”

She nodded and removed her phone once more.  

“Hi, Will. I know I shouldn’t call in case you’re driving, but we’re waiting an extra ten minutes for you to get here. You’ll be in time for cake. I can postpone for a little while longer if you’re running late.” She looked as though she wanted sigh, but restrained herself. “Please let me know.”

She slipped her phone away again and he set the match down on the tabletop, returning to his seat and together they sat patiently in silence. Retreating into his mind palace, he found himself in the silent garden that he populated with the potential for the destruction of those who had angered him. Abigail had done the same, a reflex to keep herself from fidgeting, and Hannibal imagined she was somewhere with her deceased Marissa. If anyone had walked into the dining room during their wait, they would have seen both Lecters sitting absolutely still, eyes unblinking as they watched the flames of the candles. At the ten minute mark, Hannibal stirred back to the real world and hummed softly until he saw Abigail’s eyes brighten with awareness.

*****

Picking the match off the table, Abigail held it to the flame of the nearest candle and lit it. As was to be expected from a man who refused to deny the world pageantry at every turn, her birthday was not something cheap from the supermarket with words iced across the top. Or god forbid an _ice cream cake_. 

Every year her father created a Victoria sponge cake, named after the queen who favoured them and what Olimpia Lecter had created for her children. While the cake had a humble appearance compared to what many would expect from a man who was willing to spend thousands of dollars andmany hours on ingredient preparation, it held an intimacy that no other cake could. It was something only family, only the two of them could ever have.

A trio of little beeswax candles had been placed on top and she quickly lit each one, blowing the match out. When she’d been much younger, she’d longed for the coloured candles other children had on their cakes, but now the beeswax candles were what she loved because they had such a lovely scent and were so pretty when they were on a cake. Plus, the wicks were much easier on her father’s hyper-acute nose. The cake was topped with candied rose petals, each one a delicate blush that rested atop the two tiered layers. 

“Su Gimtadieniu,” he told her, Lithuanian for ‘Happy Birthday’.

And instead of the contemporary Lithuanian birthday song, her father sang the old folk version, the one common before communism took over the country. She smiled up at him; as far as she knew, she was the only one he ever sang to and momentarily she wondered if he would have sang in front of Will had he been here. Or if he’d sing for Will’s birthday. That would be a wonderful novelty—both of them singing ‘Valio’ to the man they’d invited into their lives. Had Will’s father ever sang to him?

She blew out the candles at the end of the song and he carefully removed them to a separate plate, then began to cut them both slices. In the family room were stacks of presents that had been sent by family members and family friends for her and during the time she’d spent in the storage rooms that afternoon, she’d had Georgia organise them and make a spreadsheet on everyone who’d sent her one so that in the morning she could begin the lengthy task of ‘thank-you’ cards. 

As her father set her plate of cake, complete with dessert fork and artfully arranged rose petals, he announced, 

“I have a surprise for you.”

“Yes?” She felt excitement growing in her—he had never offered a surprised that disappointed.

He was now offering out a small box and his lips were twisting to show a mischievous smile. “You would not believe what it took to get this.”

Curious, she opened the box and saw a very familiar set of car keys. “The Bentley?”

“It’s at your Aunt Bee’s. We have permission to drive it around the naval yard until ten-thirty.”

Instead of feeling crestfallen, she considered what was being offered. An opportunity to get out of the White House without cameras was a difficult feat and getting to drive the Bentley was an exceptional reward. Perhaps to others, an offer of using a parent’s car wasn’t what someone would constitute as a present, but to her… 

She grinned at him, seeing now that _of course_ her father would have larger things at play. Oh! Maybe they wanted her out of the house so that Will could surprise her! Maybe they’d ‘meet’ him down in the parking lot or at the observatory, or perhaps when she came back home, he’d be waiting with a smile and an apology for making her worry. 

But she didn’t rush eating her piece of cake, sipping the delectable wine. The anticipation to be reunited with Will made everything taste sweeter. And then once the dessert was finished and the dishes had been given to the ushers to wash, her father led her downstairs to the waiting unmarked security vehicles that would be taking them both to Aunt Bee’s. And at Observatory One, the home of the nation’s Vice President, the gorgeous Bentley Arnage 2000, Red Label with a V8 engine.

“Automatic transition, cream leather interior,” she whispered as she climbed into the driver’s seat. 

This car was like family to her, garnering affection in the same way Winston and her Odalisque print did. One of the Secret Service agents climbed into the passenger seat and then one in the backseat behind her, as her father sat behind him. Escorted to the naval yard by the Secret Service, she considered that this was a wonderful opportunity to see what kind of personalities these two agents had and what kind of information she could get from them; feigning innocent curiosity, she asked if either could give her a tour of the buildings they were passing. 

It seemed human nature to gossip was stronger than any sense of decorum and given how nonthreatening she and her father appeared, both agents opened up almost immediately. Their chattering filled her ears and she could hear the turning of pages and knew her father was the one in the backseat, reading a magazine while she drove leisurely around the military installment. For a minute, her eyes met in the mirror with her father’s before they returned to their tasks of studying. Abigail had already pinned the man in the backseat for having a weakness for any woman who smiled and laughed at his jokes, which was wonderful for her. The woman beside her was someone who didn’t say a word to anyone outside of work out of fear that she might be talking to the enemy, but the second anyone in the White House asked her something, she didn’t think twice and began to spill. They’d both be easy targets for someone like Freddie Lounds, and they were certainly easy targets for her. 

By the time her driving was to come to an end, she could barely contain her excitement to go home; she thanked all of the agents profusely for giving her a bit of freedom to celebrate with, and naturally thanked her father for the effort it took to get the Bentley out of storage for her to drive. As they walked up the main staircase to the Residence, Abigail held her father’s hand and mentioned quietly how they would have to keep an eye on the agents they’d spent the night with. He agreed with her, murmuring his approval that she’d used the time wisely to collect the information she needed to determine how to get what she wanted from them. 

As the Yellow Room came into view, she saw the lights were on and unable to contain her joy that she’d been right about Will coming to surprise her, she left her father’s side, bolting over to the doorway.

“Will—!“ she cried out as she entered the room.

But the room was empty of anyone and she felt her stomach sink at the realisation that no, her birthday hadn’t built up to the grand culmination of Will’s return to them. She could feel her father at her shoulder and too embarrassed to turn to him, she stated the obvious.

“Will’s not here.”

“No, darling.”

For a moment, she was ready to cry at her misfortune, to wallow in the forbidden self-pity, but then a sudden thought came to her. Careful not to let the idea show, she allowed a few tears to form and wiped them away, well aware that her father was watching. 

“Well, I’ve had a long day. I should probably go to bed,” she said, not allowing a defeatist tone in her voice. 

As there were Secret Service agents close by, her father was forced to play the compassionate card and folded her into his arms, saying, “Don’t cry, Abigail. He’s not punishing you, he’s punishing me.”

“I had just hoped he’d put it aside just for one day. We were going to eat cake,” she told him.

“Shhh, get some rest. You will feel better in the morning,” he promised, his hold tightening momentarily. 

“I’ll open my presents tomorrow,” she informed, glancing at the stack of presents that had been neatly arranged on the Chippendale coffee table. 

“Of course.”

“Thank you for the wonderful birthday,” she said.

“Anything for you, my flower.” He gave her a final kiss on the head and released her.

As she walked back to her room, she brushed a few tears away, but couldn’t help the smile on her face. If she’d played her cards right, he’d see how he failed at bringing her the one thing she wanted most of all and now he’d do anything to get it for her. She bit back a laugh. Will would be back in no time at all.

*****

Hannibal did not bring food for this very late visit to Wolf Trap; there was no doubt in his mind that Will would be upset and drunk, and it would simply be a waste of time to pretend that Will would want to eat anything he brought over. And while he had a very good control of his emotions, the day had been filled with a very quiet under currant of anxious anticipation—Will was forever a surprise to him and while he could predict the majority of what the other man would do, Hannibal never had a one hundred percent assurance.  

Tonight, Hannibal had planned for the three of them to watch a movie or two, perhaps convince Will to stay the night to enjoy more time in the theatre with Abigail, excuse them when they were too tired to work in the morning. He’d organised the use the Bentley as a contingency plan should Will decide not to join them and truthfully, had not been pleased to use it; however, Abigail had been happy to drive it, which had left that gift mostly satisfactory. 

Before he entered the house, he had the Secret Service leave the interior, which his evening senior agent protested momentarily, but eventually ordered. Knowing he was now provided with the privacy necessary to discuss how the night had unfolded. Upon the official announcement of their relationship, Hannibal and Will had both drawn the line at small microphones being installed throughout the house and they’d both kept a careful eye on anything that might have been placed without their consent. 

Hannibal entered the house and quickly shut and locked the door behind him. He could hear Will upstairs, muttering to himself. 

“Will?” he called out, keeping his tone gentle and curious.

The footsteps upstairs moved and soon Will was stomping down the stairs, a bottle of cheap whiskey in his right hand; Hannibal had no doubt that the alcohol was mostly present to anger him as Will was still mostly sober.

“Oh, you’re just in time. I’m nearly drunk.” Will’s tone was sour and bitter and Hannibal nearly seized the bottle from the man’s hand, but decided that showing Will how he’d misprized _everything_ would be a more efficient approach. 

“Will, this is tearing our family apart.”

“Our _family_.” Will gave him an agonised smile. “Hannibal, we don’t have a family anymore.”

“We have already chosen to be a family, Will. You don’t get to throw that away,” he said calmly, steering Will towards the kitchen with subconscious body cues. 

“I don’t want to be family with either of you.”

“Don’t lie to me, sweet boy.”

“Don’t _call_ me that,” Will snapped as he crossed through the kitchen doorway.

Hannibal narrowed his eyes slightly, wanting to see Will hurt even more than he was now. “She only wanted to see you today. She went to bed crying.”

Will’s face momentarily displayed the pain of hearing that knowledge. “I don’t cater to either of you.”

“You wanted family and we’ve given it to you unconditionally,” Hannibal reminded. 

“Unconditionally? Where I’m expected to cover up murders and eat body parts and give up my dogs and just throw my morals out the window? It’s a hostage situation.”

“Bedelia called it that, too. Because neither of you know what family means.” Hannibal stood patiently while Will seemed to fight with himself over being compared to the Kennedy’s black sheep. When Will had no forthcoming words, Hannibal said very firmly, “I’m not going to beg you. I’m going to appeal to your logic. Come home, Will. Your daughter needs the stability of you in her life. We aren’t angry with you. There will be no repercussions.” 

“I haven’t done anything _wrong_!” Will pointed to the door. “Please leave. Just go.

Hannibal refused to back down. “I’ve cooked vegan for you, Will.”

“What? Is that some kind of fucking hardship for you?” Will sneered. 

“I’m demonstrating that I’m willing to treat you the way you wish to be treated. I am respecting your wishes. I am compromising.”

“A compromise? You’re telling me you’re _compromising_?”

“I love you.”

“Stop SAYING that!”

“I’m not going to deny us what we both want.” Hannibal took a step forward. “We both want family. And we have made it between the three of us.”

“I don’t want a family with a man who has no conscious.”

“I’m insulted, Will. I am more than that.”

“Are you? Psychopath? Murderer? 

“Father. Doctor. Public servant.”

“Fathers don’t brainwash their kids. Doctors don’t intentionally hurt people. I guess what you’re doing with your job as a politician isn’t anything less than expected.”

Hannibal was hardly annoyed, but he saw the value in pressuring Will into speaking about what troubled him. “I have put forth many good laws, Will—“

“Because it’s convenient for you, not because you care. Please note the distinction.” 

“Why can’t I have both?”

Will slumped down the floor, bottle clanking on the tile and tipping over. “You are a horrible person. Maybe that’s all I deserve. Someone so horrible that my life continues its downward spiral. That I end up so deep in the abyss that I can’t ever climb out. That I whither and fail to thrive when the light can’t reach me anymore.” He rubbed his hands over his face. 

“I will not indulge your self-pity, Will.” Hannibal turned his attention to fixing his shirt cuffs beneath his jacket. Ever the master of his own emotions, he was surprised he was not battling disgust over his partner’s attitude, though there was certainly no compassion. “I have spent a lifetime waiting for my equal, Will. I am happy you exist.”

And with that, Hannibal walked out of the house.

*****///*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +The song Abigail is misquoting is ‘Yellow’ by Coldplay
> 
> +Hannibal’s birthday gift from the Secret Service is mentioned in chapter 19 of National Anthem 
> 
> +The information on how the First Family accepts things was pulled from this site (http://www.reagan.utexas.edu/archives/reference/gifts.html); very interesting to know.
> 
> +Slavic temple rings are a traditional element of folk dress by the Slavic people. Lecter roots would be Baltic, as they are Lithuanian.
> 
> +DSM: the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. 
> 
> +Lemons-stick is a traditional Baltimore spring dessert. Recipe and photos here: http://www.bailtimore.com/bailtimore-posts/2014/5/18/the-baltimore-lemon-stick
> 
> +Abel’s line, “But don’t change a hair for me, not if you care for me,” is from the song “My Funny Valentine”.
> 
> +The Birthday Menu:  
> Hors d’oeuvre—proscutto rose on watermelon, squab drumstick in fig and date tartlette, wagu beef roulade ih shiso leaf, heart tartare in filo pastry   
> Soup—Queen Conch Lambi  
> Entree—Ortolean  
> Main course—Minke Whale  
> Dessert—Victoria Sponge Cake
> 
> +I couldn’t find a recording of “Valio”, but it apparently was the Lithuanian song used for birthdays and celebrations pre-communism. 
> 
> +Abigail’s birthday cake: http://www.twiggstudios.com/2014/04/fit-for-queen-victoria-sponge-cake.html


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

Very rarely did Abigail venture into Bella Crawford’s office; everything that occurred between the East Wing and the Press Office was handled through the formalities of interns and phone calls between the respective chief-of-staffs. Abigail had only ever visited the space twice in the entirety of living at the White House: once to bring a small gift on behalf of the First Family, and a second time during a tour of the West Wing. When Abigail was younger, the Crawfords had been regular guests at their table and Bella had often delighted her during dessert with stories of her days at NATO; Abigail liked Bella very much, admiring her elegance and how she was the only one willing to decline certain foods her father served, albeit politely. 

However, since her father had been elected, there had been a certain level of distance that they’d placed between themselves and the Crawfords and while Abigail understood that it was necessary, she did miss the interesting conversation Bella had provided. Bella always spoke with a calm, firm voice that Abigail wished she could project, something smooth and authoritative.

She and her father had been in the Green Room that morning; she stood at her father’s left shoulder, Aunt Bee beside her, as they smiled and watched her father sign an education bill for preschool being made available to all children. There had been a multitude of smiling parents with their dressed-up toddlers in attendance; she and her aunt had been slightly nauseated to be around that many children at once, but both had feigned pleasantries with them and the parents until they were able to get away. Thankfully, almost immediately after the signing of the bill, Georgia and Miss Mapp had indicated to both she and her father that Bella had sent a message that she needed to talk to both of them urgently. 

Her father decided they could meet at the Press office and as they walked along the hallways together, they spoke in Spanish, simply to practise. When at Bella’s, both Miss Mapp and Georgia were instructed to remain in the office’s waiting room, as were their agents. 

Bella gave a belated birthday greeting to her and asked if she liked the present she and Jack had given her; Abigail smiled and lied that yes, she _loved_ it—she still hadn’t opened any of her presents, feeling a bit bitter about how the night before had ended. Bella smiled and nodded, and Abigail awaited the segue into the matter that had required the both of them.  

“Abigail, a video was uploaded to Tattle-Politics fifteen minutes ago that concerns you.”

She thought about how a few days ago she was scratching the side of her nose in class and maybe it looked like she’d been picking it, which sent a quick wave of panic that she’d have to explain it to her father. She was already trying to remember what students had been sitting where so she could track back who exactly had taken the video, when Bella’s expression became grim.  

“It’s the security footage from the night Hobbs attacked you.”

Of all the things she could have imagined, this was not it. “What?”

Her father’s hand reached out to hold hers. While his face displayed no emotion, she knew she wasn’t imagining that the gesture was protective. “I thought that video was held under a gag order,” he said calmly.

Abigail’s heart was racing and while she wanted nothing more than to control her emotions over something that shouldn’t affect her, the anxiety was rising in her stomach the way bile did during food poisoning. All across the globe, people were watching her throat being slit on repeat—she could feel it happening and fought to keep her hand from reaching up to protectively cover the scar tissue that with each viewing threatened to split open, spilling old, coagulated blood down the front of her—

“I’ve already contacted your lawyer and the Baltimore PD to find out how it made it into Lounds’ hands, but for now I wanted both of you to be aware that it’s out there and there will be a lot of questions asked,” Bella continued, looking troubled. “Abigail, are you all right?”

She needed a neutral response and her father’s squeezed hers. “I’m not happy, if that’s what you’re asking. But at least it’s not an attack against my character.” She turned to look at her father. “This can only cause the nation to sympathise with me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then it’s distasteful, but nothing our family hasn’t faced before.” She let go of her father’s hand and stood. “I have a very busy morning, so if it’s all right with you, I’d like to be excused, please.”

He nodded, his eyes studying her. “Of course.”

Outside of the office, she shut the door quietly behind her and forced as neutral an expression as possible on her face. Already there were staffers sneaking glances her way and both Miss Mapp and Georgia were looking at her curiously. Barney’s mouth was drawn in a grim line and she approached him quickly. 

“Barney, I want to use the secret passages to get back to my office. The less people I see, the better,” she murmured.

He nodded and she shook her head at Georgia, not wanting her to accompany. “Can do.” Once out of the office, he passed over an unassuming office door. “This way.”

Abigail allowed herself to be navigated through short narrow passages and secret doorways that took them from one end of the White House to the other, avoiding anyone who had watched the security video on Tattle-Politics. The moment she entered her office, she stalked straight over to the iPad still docked at her desk and grabbed it. Obviously, her Mrs Madchen had been apprised of the situation and quickly said,

“Abigail, I don’t know if your father—“

Abigail’s voice was strained, but not yet angry. “I’m eighteen now and I can watch it if I want to.”

“I—“

But Abigail was already walking past her to the conference room, shutting the door behind her. Rather than watch it at the conference table, Abigail moved to the bathroom and propped the iPad up on the sink so she could also look at herself in the mirror. The Tattle-Politic page opened and sure enough, the article concerning her was at the very top. 

With gentle fingers, she undid the knot on the viscose scarf she had around her neck that morning, slowly pulling it away to look face the scar on her neck. The strange part of having a traumatic injury was that it was a living things: when that section of skin got cold, she could feel the tissue contracting tightly; when she turned her head, it pulled just enough that the keloid underneath rubbed against her tendons; when there was pressure from a nor’easter, she’d feel the throbbing of her pulse in the line of the scar.

She pressed play on the video and it automatically enlarged to fit the screen.

There was a tension in her throat and her fingers pressed along the psycho-symptomatic reaction, trying to force away the feeling as she touched the faded line of her scar. It was a part of her that held shame, a reminder that she hadn’t always been part of her father’s life, that she would always be something lesser born, instead of coming into existence perfect. 

While the footage lacked sound, she could hear the wet slide of the sharp hunting knife cutting through her neck. In the actual moment itself, she’d only been able to hear the sound of her own crying and the nurse in front of her pleading, but years of putting sharp blades through human flesh had made the knowledge of what her first death had sounded like a very real thing.

It was such a grotesque display. That child was five years old and crying and pathetic and small. She was _none_ of those things. 

She was aware that her father was in the room now, probably through the secret passageways in the building; it was logical that this is where she ended up, hidden away so she could study vulnerabilities. He stood behind her and their eyes met in the reflection of the mirror. 

“Abigail.”

She tried not to cry, but knew she that her voice was small and betraying the turmoil within her. “I wanted to see.”

“My princess. My flower.”

He turned her towards him and while she felt humiliated that she was put in a position where she just wanted his pity, she was only human, a flawed creature and she hoped he would be merciful and allow her some sort of comfort.

“That’s not me. On that screen,” she promised. 

“No. Not at all.”

“I am not her,” she insisted.

“No, you are not.”

She knew she was rambling at this point, but the words needed to be purged from her system. “She died. You let her die because she wasn’t necessary and you got me instead.”

He pulled her closer, no doubt pleased with the vulnerability she was presenting him. “Yes, sweet one. What good was she to me if I could have you?”

Her breath hitched as she felt the tears she’d tried to hold back began to leak out; she pressed her face to his jacket, forcing herself to take even and steady breaths, taking comfort in the warm and rich scent of his clothing. God, she loved him, so much, _so much_. How could anyone compare to him? His hands felt broad across her shoulders and she tried to compose herself before she asked him, 

“Why is Freddie doing this?”

“I think it is important that we remember that this can only benefit us,” he told her, his palm rubbing warm circles across her back. 

“They _pity_ me,” she murmured, bitter.

He paused before answering again.“Yes. But others see how you’ve risen above the mud from which you came. A lotus blossom.” Another gentle kiss to her temple. “Besides, what will the Cousins think? They’ll want her head on a platter.”

“Let’s give it to them, then.”

Her father tsked his tongue in disapproval. “What will your aunt think?”

“She needs to keep her little pets under control.”

“Ms Lounds isn’t her pet—she’s a tool to be used.”

“Then she needs to find a better one.”

“Is the video truly that painful for you to watch?”

She knew he was feeding off the misery she felt and was quick to explain it in terms he might understand better. “It’s different for you. You got to kill someone. You get to be glorious. I just…”

“We shall not forgive, nor shall we forget. But we must be patient.” He smiled at her, a content predator. “It will give you time to decide what you wish to have happen to her.”

“You’re right,” she agreed.

“I know.” He released her and held her shoulders with his hands instead, looking at her with a very kind expression. “Now we shall dry your tears so that no one suspects this weakness.”

“Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

“Of course, Abigail. That is my job.”

She smiled and sniffled as he ran the faucet; other children resisted being cared for and cherished, but it was something she’d never tire of. Independence was fine, but having the person she loved the most doting over her was all that she could ever want. 

“How do I look?” she asked after he washed her face of any tears and retied her scarf. 

“Like my First Lady.”

“Excellent.”

“We’ve been away from our posts long enough.” He kissed her cheek. “Let’s return so they have less to gossip about.”

As they left the bathroom, her iPad in her hands, she said lowly, “Some days I think it would be funny just to set this whole place on fire with everyone inside.”

“Perhaps we should consider that for Capitol Hill, first.” He gave her a patient smile. “But if it’s something that would amuse you, I will see what I can do.”

“It’s just a fantasy that’s more satisfying to consider than to commit,” she admitted.  

He opened the door to the office space and allowed her through; her staffers all turned to look at her in curiosity and sympathy. While she was certain most of them weren’t stupid enough to watch the video while at work, they certainly would if they went off property for lunch or when they went home. 

“Everything okay?” Georgia asked from Abigail’s desk.

She nodded. “Everything’s fine. We were discussing matters.”

“Thank you for your concern, Georgia,” her father said kindly, then turned back to her. “Abigail, I shall leave you to your work.”

She smiled. “Thank you. I’ll see you for lunch. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

*****

Knowing how crucial it was for him to play the part of someone who was upset by taking a life, once Hannibal left Abigail, he fashioned his expression into something more troubled and informed Agent Price he wanted to go up to the rooftop for a cigarette. As they passed through the Residence, he stopped momentarily to retrieve his coat, a cigarette, and his lighter. It was chilly and a bit breezy up on the rooftop of the Residence, causing Hannibal to briefly rearrange the scarf around his neck; the ushers left a small, cut crystal ash tray out on the terrace around the rooftop for him, clean and polished to glint in the sunlight. Agent Katz offered to hold the lighter for him and he thanked her. 

Oh, if only he could relive the moment of Hobbs’ death every hour of every day. It was the only death of his that had a recording, a small, impromptu performance that had been strictly unique in the sense that it had been swift and practical. He’d felt some anxiety during the investigation that when those reviewing the security footage watched it, they would see how much skill he’d put into hitting Hobbs’ skull at just the right angle so that the strike zone was crushed and his spinal cord damaged in the process, resulting in death. And yet, no one saw it. He’d told the board of directors and the police that he’d ‘simply not thought he’d have the strength to do more that knock Hobbs out’, and they’d believed it. 

The cigarette was a gratuitous celebration of his still existing freedom and he enjoyed it slowly, contemplating Abigail’s despair. He flicked his thumb against the filter to let the cigarette ash fall into the tray. Katz was standing closest to him and when she spoke, he decided that perhaps he’d overplayed his expressions of being troubled a little too hard. 

“Don’t let it get to you. Abigail’s a strong woman. And you didn’t have a choice with Hobbs—you’re a hero.”

“A hero,” Hannibal echoed, only just able to keep a smile off his lips. 

The sunlight glinted off her uniform required sunglasses. “You stepped up to the plate. You did what had to be done.” Almost as an afterthought, as though to comfort him, she added, “Taking a life isn’t easy.”

“Have you ever taken a life, Agent Katz?” He didn’t need to ask—he’d already read her file.

She shook her head. “No. And I hope that if I ever do, it’s in the line of service.”

“When I was a surgeon at Kick’s, I lost patients. Hobbs was not the first man to die in that clinic.” He considered that there were still many more to come. “And now that I am president, I shall have even more blood on my hands. As the saying goes, ‘Governments do on a large scale what serial killers do on a small one’.”

“I’ve never heard that, but I can’t say they’re wrong. Mark Twain?”

“Richard Ramirez,” Margot corrected softly. 

Katz shook her head, looking puzzled. “I’m not familiar—“

“He was the Night Stalker.” 

Katz nodded as though that had clarified the matter and Hannibal had no doubt that she was filing away that little piece of information away to look up later. Hannibal snubbed the cigarette out in the ash tray and he felt Margot’s eyes on him as he walked back to the sun room’s door.

*****

Will had been informed of the video’s existence when he arrived home from a morning of fishing; Matthew had tried to suggest against him watching it, but Will holed himself in his bedroom with his laptop and dialed up Tattle-Politics to watch the monstrosity for himself. 

She was a small child, gangly and wide eyed. Her long black hair was in her face and she looked too scared to run for help. The blade of the knife was as long as her forearm. A child that had never understood any type of empowerment, eyes begging for someone to save her to—

The blood was startling and she collapsed to the floor, chest heaving as her little hands clutched at linoleum tile. Her mouth was open in a silent gasp, eyes wide. Will felt like he was dying. Hannibal was elegant and terrible, kneeling over the small form of Abigail. How could anyone look at this and not realise Hannibal had done it before? How could someone do this to his baby, how could someone torture her with having to look at Hobbs slitting her throat?

Will felt as though he was choking, bleeding out through his neck and he finally forced a hand up to cover his throat, swallowing desperately as the sensation overwhelmed. His throat felt as though it had been filled with congealing blood—

He hadn’t even realised he’d pulled out his phone, having to stop himself from scrolling through the contacts to find Abigail’s number; so much of him wanted to call her and comfort her, to soothe her of what was possibly the most cruel thing Lounds could have done, to assure her that he would take care of this for her, that he could protect her. But just the thought of actually finding her number and initiating the call made him want to choke, cough up the blood that had filled his mouth from Hobbs slitting his throat—

Will left his phone on his bed and went back downstairs, deciding that he ought to clean the three fish he’d caught. Matthew looked concerned, that strange softness that Hannibal lacked.

“Everything okay, Mr Graham?” his agent asked quietly as they stood at the counter.

“Everything’s fine, Matthew,” Will said as he gut one of the small brown trout on yesterday’s sports section. 

Matthew stood silent, shifting his weight from left foot to right, but said nothing more, even though Will could feel he wanted to. After all three little trout had been cleaned properly and Will had taken the bloody newspapers out to the outside trashcan, he considered how he wanted to cook the fish. But as he stared into the glassy eyes and gaping mouths of his food, he felt his stomach start to churn and his breathing became shallow. Hurrying over to the kitchen’s sink, he ran the water hot and began to scrub his hands and forearms with the blue dish soap. ‘They’re not Abigail,’ he began to repeat to himself firmly. ‘They’re not Abigail. They’re not Abigail.’ His movements were becoming frantic and his 

Eventually, Matthew came over to the sink and turned off the water. 

“I think your hands are clean, Mr Graham,” the agent said gently, holding a paper towel out to Will.  

“I don’t want them,” Will muttered as he started to dry his skin off.

“Want me to put them in the fridge?”

Will shook his head and a small crease appeared between Matthew’s brow. 

“Freezer?”

“Take them home.” Will couldn’t bear to look at them. 

“What will you eat?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head, leaving the kitchen.

*****

The day following the release of the video footage, Abigail took it upon herself to stare anyone down who’d made the mistake of looking at her. She’d become a spectacle and she refused to let anyone have that power over her; only Georgia appeared to have not watched the video, which Abigail guessed was about an equal mix of respect and fear of blood. 

“We should cancel the interview on the fifteenth,” Mrs Madchen mused in a conference before everyone took a break for lunch. 

Georgia frowned and glanced over at Abigail. “Do you want to cancel your interview?”

A little surprised that her assistant was suggesting that they not consider her Chief of Staff’s advice, Abigail took the opportunity without hesitating. “No. We’ll just tell them that I don’t want to answer questions about it. I’m sure they’ll respect that if they want to maintain a working relationship with our offices.”

Mrs Madchen nodded, tapping something out on her tablet. “If at any point you want to cancel, just say so.”

“Okay.”

Abigail’s primary secretary Beth LeBeau brought over a box. “This arrived for you.”

“Oh.”

The box had been gift wrapped with the official White House gift wrapping, something that was customary for packages that had originally had decorations that were removed during inspection in the off-site postal building. She carefully removed the paper and smiled as she saw it was an (opened) box of salt-water taffy from a small store in Baltimore. A typed company notecard accompanied the box with a short message: 

_Happy birthday, Abigail! Your favourite. I had an orderly place the order for me. Lots of love, your Uncle Abel_

It was a seven dollar box of salt water taffies, fourteen pieces. He probably had a meager allowance to spend and this was the most he could offer; all gestures could be appreciated and she took her present up to the rooftop so she could indulge in the candy in private. She also slipped a cigarette into her pocket.

Abigail sat on the roof with her cigarette, her back resting against the wall and the anti-aircraft missiles hidden behind from the public’s view. The tobacco tasted terrible, but she was lonely for her father and she hoped through sympathetic magic that the act would lure him up to the roof with her. When it became apparent that he wasn’t coming, she stood and leaned over the edge of the building, gazing out at the world below.

“Want a piece?” She passed the box along the wall to Barney.

He took a green taffy. “Thank you.”

“Want a…” she held up the cigarette to him.

He smiled and shook his head. “No, thanks.” They watched the traffic driving past for some time before he cleared his throat. “Your father is looking for you.” 

She sighed and allowed him to help her to her feet; she snubbed out the cigarette and covered the box of taffies. The box was passed off to an usher to be put in her bedroom and she checked her phone briefly in hopes Will had left a message or texted her to apologise for not showing up to her birthday party, and yes, she’d make him grovel for her affections again, but she’d forgive him immediately. 

Winston joined her, abandoning his interest in sleeping up on her father’s bed, which she was fairly certain he’d secretly allowed and she ran his fingers through his fur. 

*****

Hannibal stood by the French doors leading out to the portico, silently watching as Abigail threw a tennis ball for Winston to chase across the lawn. From the expression on her face, she was very deep in thought and he considered that there would be members of her staff who would remind her to ‘smile more!’ so that the aesthetic of a happy White House would be maintained. Back in 2002, a particularly feisty young feminist had lectured him on that particular topic being offensive; he and Abigail had eaten her tongue, but he’d been intrigued enough to research the topic more thoroughly. He’d have to remind everyone that it was 2013 and telling the First Lady to smile was not an appropriate suggestion.

But she did look melancholic, there was no doubt in that. While he couldn’t find the sympathy for her that a parent might be capable of achieving, he still did want to see her happier. His clever daughter didn’t deserve to be the centre of gawking and speculation, the subject of cheap and tawdry gossip. As Winston retrieved the tennis ball for her, he began to formulate the plans for a gift.

*****

“I have been considering the tickets Governor Budge sent over for our usage,” her father announced before bringing a piece of sashimi to his mouth.

Abigail paused in her retrieval of the _tsukemono_ on her plate, watching him with unhidden curiosity; she’d almost forgotten about the opera tickets, but immediately her mind began to whirl with the possibilities implied by actually getting to use them.

“It would be rude to decline them,” he said after he swallowed. 

A smile began to form on her lips. “We can go?”

“I shall not attend. I will be needed in Hyannis Port; my first Thanksgiving as president is not a small matter and there will expectations from the family and the media. It is customary for the president to participate in charity work in honour of Thanksgiving, but I am also expected to uphold the image of the new leader of the family, which will require many photos taken of myself interacting with whomever Bedelia pushes my way. I am not interested in the charitable aspect of my duties, so you shall do them for me.”

“So I’ll stay here?”

“No.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “You shall stay with Will.”

“He’s—“ Abigail had still simply assumed he’d tag along to Hyannis Port with them, not even considering he wasn’t planning on going with them. But this was so much better! “I can?”

“Yes.” 

“Do we still have to ask him if those plans will work for him?”

Her father took a sip of sake before answering. “I shall ask him tonight when I bring him dinner.”

She ate her sashimi and then asked, “Do you think he’ll say ‘yes’?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you have doubts?”

“I do. Though he might see this as a way to compensate for missing my birthday.”

He gave a small nod. “I had considered that.”

“Yes, I would appreciate you asking him.” Abigail gave him a smile. 

“I shall have you stay over the night in Wolf Trap, and I shall announce that you are staying behind to contribute to a soup kitchen for the day. It will be opportune to prove that our offices compliment one another, rather than show you as operating under my orders. The First Lady is not the President’s pawn, after all. You are my partner and equal in this White House, Abigail.”

Something tight and aching formed in her chest at her father’s acknowledgement of her work, and too emotional to thank him, she quietly requested, “May I work at a women’s shelter serving food? I think that would look nice for my office.”

He nodded. “It would. The Madchens will undoubtably wish to accompany you.” 

“I shall request that any staff member remaining in Washington for the holiday participate. Demonstrating a unified effort will have a larger impact on the East Wing.” She tucked her hair behind her ear again. “I think Will will be happy that I want to have Thanksgiving with him. And if he changes his mind at the last moment and does want to come to Hyannis Port to be with you, I would be able to notify Secret Service that we were joining you.”

Her father smiled, pleased that she’d managed to work out what it was that he wanted out of the arrangement. “I have already picked out the dress you will wear to the performance.”

Their conversation turned to the opera, both of their minds privately forming plans.

*****

In less than a week, Abigail would be traveling to China and Hong Kong for her very first solo appearance as First Lady overseas. The country had been chosen due to the quiet discussions to the potential of new trade agreements and because she spoke one of their languages. 

At Sidwell Friends, there had been a variety of foreign languages to become fluent in and despite what many would expect from the daughter of a man who relied heavily on the European fineries of life, she’d picked Cantonese. While she had a basic fluency in French and Spanish, Cantonese sounded lyrical and complex in a way that romance languages never could and the ease of speaking it came to her naturally. To her, it sounded happy and beautiful, a language of commerce for the new millennium, rich with history and culture. Abigail still had a copy of the daily Hong Kong newspaper delivered to her office, less because of any interest in their day-to-day, but to maintain her fluency in the reading of the language. Her father’s Lithuanian accent wasn’t able to mould the language the way she could, though his Japanese had always been close to flawless. 

Every afternoon after three, her official translator had come over to the office to practice her conversational skills; the White House seemed at odds with her being allowed to speak directly to the people she was to meet. On one hand, they found it fascinating and cultured of her to be able to speak to people in an Asian country without assistance. On the other hand, there was the fear that she would say or do something that would be horribly and inexcusably wrong and prove disastrous for relations between the countries. Her father had very politely insisted that they were overreacting, but did agree it couldn’t hurt for her language skills to be brushed up upon and for an official translator to accompany her on the trip. 

They reviewed any new slang that she had been unaware of so that she wouldn’t use it accidentally, then reviewed proper grammar and honourifics; the translator agreed that Abigail was more than capable of communicating while abroad, though the woman told her that she’d be there regardless in the event she was needed. 

*****

Will had a headache from hunger, but he’d only managed a few cough drops and half a bag of potato chips before they made him think of deep fried skin. He’d considered drinking some soup down, but all they’d had at the little grocery store was tomato; when he was a child, his dad used to get a few cases of Campbell’s from the Salvation Army when they passed through Biloxi and it would be breakfast and dinner for months. When Hannibal finally arrived that evening, he was drinking a dusty herbal he’d found in the back of his cabinets—he’d forgotten to pick up anything to drink earlier. Despite his repulsion of food, he was still disappointed that Hannibal hadn’t brought anything with him again.

“I wish to speak to you about something,” the President told him as Will debated asking if the other man wanted a cup of tea, too.

Will felt a tightness in his chest, thinking about the security footage he’d watched the day before. “Everything okay?”

Hannibal joined him at the kitchen table, respectfully keeping distance between them. “I would like for Abigail to spend Thanksgiving with you.”

A new tension filled him and Will smiled lackluster at the mug of tea. “I wonder if this is how divorced parents feel. Trying to figure out who gets the kid on what holidays.”

“Unless you wish to accompany the two of us to Hyannis Port.” Will wondered if Hannibal was suddenly loathing that he’d have to spend a holiday around more people than he wanted to.

“If I say no?”

“Then Abigail will have Thanksgiving alone at the White House.”

Will could see that this was a trap built around guilting him into performing for the two Lecters. “Why isn’t she going with you?”

“She felt it would be in good form to serve an early Thanksgiving dinner to a women’s shelter.” Hannibal tilted his head slightly to the left. “She could stay the night in your spare room so that the two of you could spend time together. You might find it enjoyable to have company outside of your Secret Service agents. Perhaps the two of you could work on her fly tying. It would be very healthy for her to have your good influence on—“

“Don’t play psychiatrist, Hannibal. It doesn’t _suit_ you.” He gave a loud and clearly irritated sigh. “Fine. She and Winston can come over.” 

Hannibal nodded again and there was a new ease to his posture from getting his way. “What food shall the two of you prepare? I will have the kitchens—“

“We’ll have McDonalds.” 

Oh, Will could see he’d hit a very raw nerve in the other man. There was a minute tightening in Hannibal’s jaw before he said, “Very well, Will. Shall I leave you money for it—“

“You’re not feeding me in my house,” Will snapped, glaring at him. “I’m not going to feed her McDonalds for Thanksgiving.” After a moment’s pause he added, “Tell her to bring a movie we can watch.”

Will stared into the depths of his now cooled-off tea, fingers tapping against the mug’s smooth glaze; he felt foolish for having given in without much of a fight, blaming it on the fact that he was hungry and couldn’t think rationally. Maybe in the morning he’d call, no, text Hannibal back to tell him the deal was off, that Abigail could rot in the White House for all he cared. 

“Shall we go upstairs?”

Will was startled out of his thoughts at the softness in Hannibal’s voice and he looked up. Hannibal’s eyes contained no emotion in them, like looking into a void. _‘I have stared into the abyss,’_ he thought to himself as he nodded and stood from the table. Behind him he could hear Hannibal taking his mug over to the sink and rinsing it out; as Will walked up the steps, he contemplated how easy it would be for him to kill Hannibal when they were alone in the bathroom. He could gut him like a fish and so long as he was quiet, the Secret Service wouldn’t suspect a thing ’til morning when they had to collect him back to the White House. The thought was so plain and tranquil, occurring to Will in almost exactly as political scenarios crossed his mind, allowing him to analyse the how he felt about it. First, he felt it was too close to what Abel Gideon did to bring about any catharsis in him. Second, Hannibal would most likely not accept that sort of death. Thirdly…

Will did want Hannibal dead.

But he also wanted Hannibal shackled up and hidden away from the public, where he was only Will’s burden to bear.  

In his bathroom, Will washed off his face and brushed his teeth, still mulling thoughts over about how he’d kill Hannibal in his bedroom when Hannibal entered quietly, shutting and locking the door behind him. Will stepped out into his bedroom, drying his face off with a hand towel as he watched the other man undress. He considered what it the world would look like if Hannibal had remained a surgeon and he’d met Will, if this evening would be Hannibal coming over to simply spend the evening with him, if the evening would even exist for Will at all. Perhaps in some parallel universe he didn’t know who and what Hannibal truly was, and their relationship had that innocence to it, the sweetness that it had held over the summer. Maybe that had been the true allure for Hannibal—a gentleness that he’d built and knew at some point he’d have to destroy.

As Hannibal set his clothes neatly on the dresser, Will couldn’t stop himself in time from letting the words slip out of his mouth. “Do you believe in—“

“Do I believe in what, Will?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Hannibal stared at him with very curious eyes. Embarrassed, Will threw the towel back on the bathroom sink and pulled off his clothes, letting them fall unceremoniously to the floor. Hannibal still watched him, but was now on the bed, evidently trying to decide what it was that Will hadn’t asked him. Not interested in having to clean up afterwards, Will pulled out one of the few condoms he’d had stashed in the back of his nightstand.  

Hannibal immediately sat back on his heels, his posture changing to indicate that he’d reached a hard limit. “I have a latex allergy, Will.” 

Will watched him closely; it would be easy for Hannibal to lie because he didn’t want to use a condom, to lie to fuck with Will’s head, to lie just for the sake of lying.

“I have a latex allergy, Will,” Hannibal repeated again and Will set thecondom back down on the nightstand. 

“Not fatal,” he stated. He’d never had thought to ask. 

“No. Just enough to make any experience with it uncomfortable.” Hannibal’s glanced back at the condom for a split second, betraying a minute amount of anxiety. “If you insist on a condom, there are non-latex—“

“No. No, I just—“ Will stared at the floor and muttered, “Don’t worry about it. I just didn’t want to make a mess.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Hannibal seemed sincere. 

“Just forget it.”

“Will—“

“No—“ Will held up his hands. “Just, let’s not do this. Not tonight. I don’t want to.”

“Would you prefer fellatio?” The tone was mocking, but Hannibal was obviously curious.

“No, I meant that I don’t even want to have sex in the first place. It’s just a way to get rid of stress.” Will sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling miserable. 

“So you’re using me.”

Will turned back to look at Hannibal. “No! No, I didn’t mean it—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You didn’t?”

“Hannibal—“ Will ran his hands over his face. “Don’t make me the villain in this. You come here and present the opportunity because you know I’ll take it.”

“So I _want_ you to use me, Will?” 

“You want me to need you for emotional release. So that I’ll just bottle it up inside until you show up.” He glanced back at the wrapped condom on the nightstand, unable to face the other man. “What kind of gloves did you use as a surgeon?”

“Silver-nitrile. I found the light grey colour more appealing than the standard violet-nitrile.”

Will imagined that the sight of someone’s blood showed up better on light grey than violet, anyway. 

“Did you ever consider that I might have wanted to be loved instead of saved?” he asked, trying to force out the thoughts of Hannibal as an indifferent, godlike surgeon. 

Hannibal was silent, staring at him.

“I just wanted people who would love me.” Will knew that Hannibal had preyed on that fact. “I thought that you and Abigail understood that.”

“We do.”

“No. You both want to save me from the quicksand you see the world as.”

“Why can’t it be both?” Hannibal’s eyes cored his entire being and Will felt as though he couldn’t breathe. “Why can’t she and I want to love you…and save you?” A small mocking smile crossed Hannibal’s lips. “Are you telling me that you’ve come to the realisation that you’re _perfect_ exactly the way you are and real love doesn’t ask you to change? Oh, Will. How sweet. You understand that she and I have never asked you to change. Don’t you? We could never want you to change. I have seen that as your greatest fear—being exactly what everyone fears you are. You are powerful and your potential to be divine among these sheep and pigs—these mere animals—is your destiny, should you take it.” The smile was gone now and there was just the cold power left. “No, Abigail and I never wanted you to change who you truly are.”

“I am not a…”

“Yes, you are.” Hannibal’s hand reached out and touched Will delicately on the shoulder. “Yes. You are. Tell me why you want to walk amongst the ones that do not appreciate or value you, instead of with the two whom revere you.”

“I don’t lack a conscious. That’s why.”

“Do you feel guilt for loving Abigail and I? For loving two people who do not care about those in the world around them?”

“You know I do,” Will said quietly. 

“Love is a selfish and selfless thing, Will. I feel it for you daily. I feel it for Abigail.” Hannibal spoke with absolutely conviction. “You don’t understand what has made you the way you are. What has made me the way I am. Nothing. _Nothing_ happened to us as children, infants, or even in the womb to transform us into who we are right now. You and I would be the way we are had we grown up in abject poverty or wealth, with loving family or absent family, with education or without, in America or in lands far away. Minds like ours cannot be anything but the result of ovum and spermatozoa. We cannot even blame our parents for that—we are random chance, but we exist and deny our nature is an insult to evolution of man.” A small smile, this time honest, appeared. “How we use ourselves is perhaps the only true choice we have in the matter. We can channel ourselves creatively or we can repress our instincts and truths. Have you found happiness denying who you truly are? You are more than a man, Will. And I know that one day you will see that you’re wasting time ignoring something you know about yourself. That you will feel relief to join me once more.”

“I won’t let you own me.”

Hannibal’s smile held a note of fondness now. “How could I? I could never truly own a splendor such as yourself. I am merely able to facilitate your needs and watch you express your desires.” 

“Would you lose respect for me if I deny who I am?” Will didn’t know if he wanted an answer to that question, but it was worth asking. 

“I would be puzzled and spend the rest of my life trying to understand such a choice. But it will not change my feelings for you.” Hannibal left his position by Will’s side to gather up his neatly folded clothes and begin to dress, which caused Will’s stomach to knot at the realisation of rejection. “Would you love me more if I was no longer the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“No. Because then you wouldn’t be ‘you’.”

“You cannot have it both ways, my sweet boy.”

Will fought the inexplainable desire to grab him by the wrist to stop him from leaving, to at least give him a kiss before he left so that Will would have _something_. But he kept his hands in his lap and with a heavy heart, watched Hannibal leave the room. He wished the other man would have asked him to walk him to the front door, or requested yet again that Will eat the food he’d brought over; he wanted Hannibal to need him. No, not the possessive demandings Hannibal felt, But something emotional—something where Hannibal was frightened or upset or simply human and looking for that extra reassurance that Will loved him. Even though Will knew he had an ugliness that lived within himself, he still wanted to show someone that he was capable of love. That he could offer himself selflessly, could provide a sanctuary, that he could make a house feel like a home.

He blinked back the tears as he heard the front door opening and shutting, and reached over to shut the nightstand drawer. Hannibal reduced him to feeling more worthless than anything in his life ever had and like some masochist, Will would rather endure a life with it, than face a world without it. 

He still had a headache from hunger.

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +A Nor’easter is a type of storm on the east coast of the US characterised by the fact that the wind is blowing from the northeast direction
> 
> +All White House post is sent to an off-site facility where it can be inspected for any threats, then is passed along to the proper channels, hence a gift being rewrapped in White House gift wrapping than its original paper.   
> While edible gifts are not something the First Family is allowed to accept, I decided that after the Secret Service opened it, they ran their tests on it for any dangers and it passed. Not something that would happen in real life!
> 
> +The quote Hannibal gives Governments do on a large scale what serial killers do on a small one’ is actually the reverse of the quote: “Serial killers do, on a small scale, what governments do on a large one.” It was said by Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker, a serial killer active in LA and San Francisco from April 1984-May 1985. And yes, Hannibal was deliberately misquoting
> 
> +Tsukemono is pickled cabbage
> 
> +Cough drops are throat lozenges. 
> 
> +Silver-nitrile gloves: (http://www.staples.com/Kimberly-Clark-Professional-Sterling-200-Pack-Nitrile-Silver-Exam-Gloves/product_SS2175372)  
> Violet-nitrile gloves: (http://www.sks-science.com/lab-supply-p-8544.html)  
> Both are latex free.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter takes place between November 13-15, 2013

“Are you feeding those plants a smoothie?”

It was November 13th, less than forty minutes before his flight to Lithuania for the annual placing of a memorial wreath at the rebuilt American embassy in Vilnius. Hannibal was in the kitchen with Agent Katz, who was standing by the hallway door to prevent anyone from entering, at his request. He’d sought time to himself to indulge the many domestic tasks his occupation as president had denied him, a form of meditation and grounding that considerably eased his mind. He enjoyed routine and the kitchen was his arena in which he was most comfortable. 

While the Secret Service had always been endlessly polite, they’d grown far more comfortable accepting his orders over Purnell’s in the past month. It appeared they’d misunderstood the lack of interest he and his daughter had at persecuting Agent Zeller as reluctance and loyalty to the Secret Service organisation, which was proving to be an incredibly useful alliance to have.Hannibal was aware that Bedelia had picked Secret Service agents who were susceptible to flexible ethics to shield her; she’d likely promised them jobs in the private sector with defense contractors, which would pay considerably more than a government job could. 

And while Hannibal loathed these contradictory shadows that followed him everywhere, he could certainly see why Will had liked Katz the best out of his main circle of protection. 

He smiled slightly as he poured the thick liquid of processed fruit and vegetable scraps onto the peat-based soil. “It is a nutritional boost of otherwise compostable materials, Agent Katz. I’m hoping to replenish the minerals these herbs have depleted from the soil.”

She held up her hands. “I’m not going to judge you needing an excuse to make a delicious smoothie and not having enough people to offer them to.”

“I assure you this is not something you’d enjoy drinking.”

As he carried the now empty blending pitcher to the sink, she told him, “You know, if you want to finish up anything last minute, I can wash that out for you.”

“I appreciate the offer, Agent Katz. But washing it out is half the fun.”

“Got it.” There was about a minute of silence before she stood up straighter, looking out at the hallway, where Hannibal could hear approaching footsteps. “Hey.” She shook her head at whomever it was, then turned back to him. “Don’t worry—not going to let anyone bother you until flight.” 

“You are too kind.”

“You could repay me with a smoothie at some point,” she suggested, her tone half jest.

He raised an eyebrow. “My appreciation isn’t payment enough?”

“Sorry, Doctor.” She shrugged. “So you make a compost smoothie for them to cannibalise?”

“Four times a year, otherwise the herbs start to lose their flavour and their appearance begins to look pale.”

Agent Price entered the kitchen, eyebrows raised. “What’s beginning to look pale?”

Katz didn’t skip a beat. “You, Jimmy. The President and I were just discussing that you sorely need vitamin D.”

Price played along. “Not to worry, the missus and I shall be celebrating our twenty-fifth this Christmas in Cabo, where we will be getting plenty of sun, sand, and tequila.”

“Congratulations on your upcoming anniversary, Agent Price,” Hannibal said as he carefully cleaned the blender’s blade attachment.

“Thank you, Mr President,” Price replied with a polite smile. “So to address your concerns, _Bev_ , my skin shall have its bronzed glow by the end of the year.”

She smirked. “I’m relieved.”

Price glanced at the sudsy blender pitcher that Hannibal scrubbed at. “Mr President, we can have an usher wash that, if you want.”

“I am fine, Agent Price. Thank you.”

It was Agent Price’s turn to lean against the counter now; Hannibal wondered if their loyalty was worth suffering such informalities. “Weather in Vilnius is supposed to be pretty cold when we arrive.”

Hannibal nodded his head once in acknowledgement, not wanting to encourage idle chatter; while he had no qualms encouraging their sense ofallegiance to he and Abigail, he didn’t want there to be the impression of _friendship_.

Price’s eyes lingered on his hands’ movements for a few seconds before he inquired, “Secret Service was wondering if there was anything special we could do for the memorial?”

The tone was casual enough that Hannibal knew that his senior agent was attempting not startle or upset him with, which was vaguely insulting, considering that as president, it should take something much larger and more disturbing to unsettle him. 

“The thought is appreciated, but it is not necessary.”

“We’d like to, though,” Price said, his voice a bit firmer.

While Hannibal was pleased knowing others wished to honour his deceased family, he still hesitated, knowing that no one would ever truly mourn them the way he did. “A simple bouquet would not be remiss,” he settled on after a moment.

Price nodded. “Noted.”

*****

Will had the day off and had spent it doing things he wanted. And by wanted, it really meant that he was ready to accomplish chores around the house that he absolutely had to take care of, such as laundry, changing the bedsheets, and give a serious vacuum to the floorboards. Plus, there was still some weathering to accomplish around the house; while the Secret Service had done much of it on their own during the past week so that he wouldn’t interfere with their security measures, there were still things to check over as the owner of a very old house. Matthew was always offering to assist in light housework, usually under the premise that Will needed to go easy with his shoulder, but Will always declined. 

Deciding to go to town, Will sat in the passenger seat of the Secret Service vehicle that his agent used to drive him around. This morning he had the Shriver’s cheque in an envelope; he’d finally decided to deposit it at his bank, feeling a desire to start collecting and rehabilitating strays again. While he still felt a little strange accepting their money, he did know it would be used for something good and was able to rationalise that if the family had wanted to contribute to the cause, then who was he to deny their generosity. 

Once it had been cashed, he took half of it to the county’s animal shelter and donated it; he was assured that the money would help buy food and new bedding for the many animals that came through. Times were tough for the animal shelter, he was told, and every dollar was helping—it seemed people were still trying to recover from the dreadful economy that Bush, McCain, and Chilton had left for the nation to deal with. Will had felt overwhelmed with guilt, thinking of the White House salary he was still receiving on top of his decent university pay—too many people were struggling with the inability their bills and funding was tight for the care of those who needed it most.Will made sure to dig out an extra twenty dollars before leaving, cramming it down into the large plastic donation jar by the front door of the animal shelter.

The rest of the money from the cheque was placed into a money envelope that the bank provided to him at his request; when Matthew asked where they were to go next, Will directed him back to Wolf Trap. At the feed store, Will relaxed, drifting among the large barn’s rows of needed supplies for rural living. The feed store was comprised of a wooden building attached to the side of a massive red barn. The entire barn smelt of cut alfalfa and flint corn, and a fluffy grey barn cat walked by him lazily; Will liked the feed store, finding it calming, though not as familiar as the boat docks he understood with an overwhelming instinct. 

His fingers touched over rough woven saddle blankets that were draped on shelves; pulling his black watch cap tighter over his head, he considered buying one to throw on the worn spot of his couch in his living room. Matthew looked over a few pieces of saddle hardware and horse shoes, the activities of a curious city boy; Will watched him for a moment, imagining how Matthew was trying to guess how each piece of tack worked or how the horse shoes were actually applied to a hoof. Then Matthew looked up in Will’s direction and Will was quick to glance away, not wanting the eye contact. 

There was a section specifically for dogs; it was a nice selection of basic supplies, none of the cheaply made and cutesy things found at Petsmart and PetCo. Those stores were overwhelming in terms of items and people. Will selected a few solid colour nylon rope leashes, mulled over the plastic and metal water bowls, and purchased four medium-sized dog beds in a rectangle shape rather than round. There were a few simple collars of various sizes and Will picked one of each; small tags that could be written on with permanent marker filled a plastic container, and he grabbed a handful of those, because he could never have enough. There were also reflective tags and Will thought for a moment about the Secret Service that resided at his home, then decided that the reflective tags might be a good idea to include to any collar.  

Stacked by the wall were large plastic barrels for holding kibble or dry feed, keeping the contents fresh and free from vermin; he thought it would be a nice addition to his household and had it added to the day’s order. A bale of alfalfa to use for bedding in the outdoor shelter he’d made out of an old dog house, should there be a dog refusing to come home with him and he needed to leave them a safe space to stay.

“Dry food?” the young man who worked at the front counter asked.

Will shook his head. “Not today.”

As he made his way to the register to pay, he lingered by a few shelves that had small baggies and containers of homemade dog treats; a little sign on the shelf told him that a group of local middle school students were making the organic treats to raise money for school trip to see the Amish in Pennsylvania. One of the containers was filled with chunky heart shaped treats that were labeled with oatmeal and dog-friendly carob; it was twelve dollars and he shrugged, picking it up. 

Everything purchased and loaded into the back of the vehicle, he and Matthew went through the Burger King drive through to pick up lunch. But even though he’d picked the choice of a fish sandwich himself, when they parked in the mostly empty post office parking lot to eat, he found himself unable to bring it up to his mouth; the longer he hesitated, the more awful the thought of eating it became. He closed his eyes, swallowing down the extra saliva that had built up in his mouth at the vomit his body threatened to expel. He counted to himself slowly, trying to think of things other than the building terrified screams of Hannibal and Abigail’s victims that were filling his head.

“Not good?” Matthew’s voice broke the silence.

Will opened his eyes and looked over at the agent to his left. “No.”

“I wouldn’t trust a fast food place to make a decent fish sandwich, anyway.” Matthew pulled out his pocket knife, a large utility bladed Gerber and and cut his own hamburger in half. “Here, have half my hamburger. I’ve already tried it—it’s good. Nothing off.”

Will nodded, accepting the food. Matthew seemed to think this was all about a fear of food poisoning and frowned at Will’s reluctance. 

“Go on. You need something. All you had this morning was coffee.”

Will shook his head, feeling sick. “I can’t eat the meat. I feel like throwing up.”

“Okay.” Matthew set his half of the hamburger down on the wrapper covering his lap and took Will’s half back. He pulled out the two patty halves and put one of his untouched tomatoes in between the hamburger buns, then added a handful of fries. Putting the lettuce-tomato-fries sandwich together, he handed it back to Will with a smile. “There.”

Will took the sandwich half back and while it didn’t look great, it certainly seemed less intimidating. He forced himself to take a bite and Matthew’s smile became a grin; as Matthew added the extra hamburger patty halves into his own sandwich, Will concentrated on chewing. The sandwich was a combination of greasy, too much mustard and ketchup, and bland iceberg lettuce and tomato. Will’s stomach clenched at the food and he sucked down his root beer through the straw of his drink as he waited to see how he was going to react to the food he was eating. 

A commercial on the radio switched into Christmas tunes and Matthew changed it to NPR.

“ _—in Vilnius, Lithuania. Vice President Du Maurier has remained in Washington—_ “

“Want to listen to something else?” Matthew asked quickly.

“Don’t care,” Will muttered. 

Matthew scanned for new stations and finally settled on a station devoted to power ballads. 

“Oh nice,” Matthew declared as a White Snake song came on.

Will closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the seat’s headrest, focusing on chewing his food. Matthew hummed along to the music and Will smiled. While this lunch was considerably smaller than it should have been, it was still nicer than nothing at all. 

After they finished eating, they headed down the local hardware store to pick up more weatherising strips and a few bottles of expanding insulation foam. Matthew talked to him about winters in Detroit and when they got back to his house, the agent set about to helping Will fill various small cracks in the siding of his house with the insulation foam, which Will was silently grateful for as they managed to finish before sundown.

After Will ate half a bag of goldfish crackers and said goodnight to Matthew as the evening agents switched onto duty, he sat down on the couch in the living room with the smaller of the stray rescuing items he’d purchased earlier that day. There was a television in the living room that he for the most part ignored, but tonight turned on; he told himself that he wanted something playing in the background, faux company while he wrote down his contact information on the tags he’d bought earlier that day.In actuality, he was secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of Hannibal and Abigail in Lithuania; seeing them in their performance as America’s elegant political representatives was still fascinating and despite what he said to them, he wanted to see them the same way he saw them in the beginning. 

The television was immediately muted and he watched as photos began to appear on the screen, black and white candids of the Lecter parents, Count Edvardas III and Olimpia Lecter. Will’s elbows came to rest on his knees and he leaned forward to study the images better. Edvardas Lecter was remarkably handsome, which made sense, considering how Hannibal was nearly his spitting image. Edvardas was broad shouldered and exuded extroverted confidence, a man who would forever be the life of the party, no matter what room he walked into. It was almost alien to see that humoured quirk of amusement on a face that was nearly Hannibal’s, such a warmth that Hannibal had never possessed. Though maybe that was what Will found so attractive.

Conversely, Olimpia Lecter had the classic features of Italian beauty—olive skin that no doubt tanned exquisitely under the sun, long dark hair that fell in loose waves, round cheeks that dimpled when she smiled, and Hannibal’s dark brown eyes, just a shade more maroon than normal. She was gorgeous, a woman who could have easily been some artist’s muse; the daughter of an Italian shipping tycoon and a former gold-medalist in the 1936 Winter Olympics who’d both immigrated to America to escape the fascism their homeland had found itself mired in. 

There was film footage of the young couple together, attractive New York socialites, the pair that had fallen in love at Olimpia’s debutant ball. Photographs documenting their college graduations from St Lawrence and Sweet Briar respectively; photos documenting their wedding, which puzzled Will for a moment, wondering why David Bowie was present, until he remembered that Hannibal had already corrected him once before, and the man Hannibal’s parents were standing with was in fact Hannibal’s uncle, Robertas Lecter; photos of the young Lecter brothers in private school uniforms, both waving at the camera, their arms slung over one another’s shoulders; More file footage of the Lecters in attendance at Robertas and Murasaki’s wedding, while JFK himself gave a speech for his adopted sister and Robertas, Edvardas sitting at the table as best man. 

Will knew the smaller mythology of the Lecter family from his time in the political sphere of Washington; they didn’t have anywhere the mystique of the Kennedy family, but anyone interested in America’s history during the 60s and 70s had the Lecters on their radar, and then when Hannibal had entered the running for presidency, their story was brought back into the public eye once more. Edvardas and Robertas had been the intended heirs of their father Urbonas Lecter’s ‘The Gotham Tribune’, an evening edition newspaper that still existed today. Edvardas had a different idea though and had attended university for matters other than business and journalism, majoring in sociology and law. Olimpia had been far too free spirited for her parents, opinionated and liberal; she’d been disowned and cut off from the family’s exceptional purse strings after she’d pursued a career in sociology, as well, though she’d secured her own employment proofreading for The Gotham Tribune until she and Edvardas had accepted the roles given to them by President Kennedy of ambassadors and diplomats.

A photo of Edvardas and the late President Kennedy walking together in the middle of a deep discussion, probably regarding the threat of communism growing in the Eastern European block. Will felt a shiver run up his spine at the history of both men’s deaths were taken far too early in their work; Edvardas looked too much like his son and Will couldn’t bear the thought of Hannibal being killed for the political ideologies he’d been pushing for. 

A photo of Olimpia Lecter speaking at one of Bobby Kennedy’s 1964 campaign speeches for US Senate, representing New York; the angle of the photo had been considered somewhat scandalous at the time, as she was pregnant with Hannibal and the photographer had caught her at a moment where the large podium was not hiding her growing stomach.

A photo of both Lecters at President Kennedy’s funeral and a short clip of them speaking together in an interview. 

A family photo of the four Lecters the summer before they were murdered:they were stood on the beach, posing together for an impromptu shot. Olimpia had her hands resting on her children: the left cupping the side of Hannibal’s head, the right tousling Mischa’s hair. Edvardas had an arm draped over his wife’s shoulder, a relaxed and natural smile on his face. Gulls flew over the water in the distance. Hannibal stood with a polite, prim, and familiar smile, something that to a layman might look shy, but to Will looked cold. Small Misha, whose smile was just a shade sunnier than her brother’s. It was Abigail’s smile. 

 _‘Oh god—he has always been this way,’_ Will thought to himself. _‘He was always that shifty void of humanity wrapped in skin._ _’_

The screen cut to commercials and Will found it in him to finally exhale, gazing at the books on his bookcase rather than the Preparation H advert. He saw now that Hannibal had truly been desperate to capture that point in his life and replicate it through Abigail. Perhaps it wasn’t an intention to recreate that exact moment, or that exact structure, but Hannibal wanted nothing more than to return to the childhood that had been stolen from him—the potential of returning to the small dream world he’d created for himself in the two years of his baby sister’s existence. Abigail had given that to him, a chance where the universe folded back on itself and he’d been allowed to pick up where he’d left off. He pictured how Hannibal would have certainly celebrated every moment with Abigail when she’d been younger; while he had clearly spent thousands of hours shaping her into the ideal he pictured in his own head, Hannibal would have been helpless to keeping her happy and Will, in his own empathy, felt the overload of Hannibal’s emotions at the excitement of getting to share his new favourite things with the child who’d found a space in his life. For the pair of them, there were no rules or morals, just the excessive hedonism, just the opulence of a world full of freedoms. Will had already seen that, after all. 

When the show returned, he watched as there was footage of Hannibal and Abigail disembarking from Air Force One, both looking very stoic and solemn; when they’d reached Lithuania it was evening, but it still meant they were greeted on the air strip with all the formalities that countries extended to other’s leaders. Both were presented with bouquets of flowers by two young girls in what Will assumed was traditional Lithuanian folk dress and a walkway guarded by men and women in military dress uniform.  

Hannibal’s bouquet was passed to Abigail to hold as the country’s President, Dalia Grybauskaitė, met them; hands were shaken and then kisses were given to Abigail’s cheeks. Will watched as they were led to the armoured motorcade that flew with Air Force One when the President went overseas; Hannibal offered his hand to Abigail as she entered the car.

The way she’d lingered at his side, just a shade too close, might have led others watching to think she was just a child looking for her father’s comfort, but Will could see it was protective gesture. She wanted to be close to him for his safety and well being. The world was a growing darkness threatening to engulf the light that was Hannibal Lecter and she wanted to act as the glass walls that would shelter the flame. It was endlessly fascinating that she knew exactly what he was and still saw him as vulnerable, possibly the only person who felt that way. Will could understand that it was her own misunderstanding that allowed her to think this way. He curled his fingers in and rubbed the tips over the scar on his palm. How naive of her to think that something as simple as the blade of a knife could bring them all together and keep them happy. How stupid of him to let himself buy into that thinking, too.

Will could see that if one hadn’t been informed that Abigail was adopted, that one would naturally assume she obviously favoured Hannibal’s mother’s side of the family. Then again, the argument could be made that she looked similar enough to Robertas’ slight build that she definitely took after the Lecter half. Will tried to shake his head free of those thoughts. Regardless, Abigail was a Lecter by spirit and name only; Will could feel now how there was no doubt Hannibal considered it one of the finest things to bestow upon her, the privilege of joining the Lecter pedigree.

Settling back into the couch, Will took the tv remote and began to scan through the news channels for more footage of the Lecter family’s trip to Lithuania. He finally found a CSPAN3 special on Abigail instead; relaxing, he lie down, resting his head on the arm of the couch and watched as they showed high school photos of the woman-child he called daughter. CSPAN had a tendency to drag things out for hours and this special was nothing different. Will considered that if Hannibal’s parents hadn’t been killed, Abigail would have been their little treasure, spoilt and doted upon. No, if they hadn’t died, then Mischa wouldn’t have died either, and then Hannibal wouldn’t have had a reason to save the little girl when Hobbs tried to kill her.Will drifted off to sleep with fantasies of taking Abigail with him, the two running off together to live a life without Hannibal, without death and killing, without the eating of bodies, and where no one had to manipulate the other, where Hannibal was normal wanted nothing more than to be a father and a husband and a doctor…

*****

“Man, they’re going to be showing his speech soon and I want to get to it before the next class starts,” Molly announced with a grin as she hurried over to his desk with her tablet.

Will moved his chair aside for her as Matthew shut his office door; Molly already had the White House’s media page up and streaming the Lecters in Lithuania. Her hand rested close to his and Will knew it wasn’t an accident; he still had no idea how to tell her that both times he’d kissed her had been mistakes. He didn’t want to like an asshole. Okay, he was an asshole. _‘Sorry, Molly—I was trying to get interested in someone other than Hannibal Lecter, who was more than my boss at the White House. And it’s me, not you. Actually, it’s me and Hannibal, not you.’_

“Aw, she looks so pretty. Like a Russian princess,” Molly commented as they watched Abigail giving a speech in Lithuanian; there were subtitles on the bottom of the screen allowing for everyone to follow along.

“Probably not a comparison she’d like,” Will murmured.

Abigail wore a fur hat and thick grey knee-length wool coat, her legs covered in heavy tights that were a rich ochre yellow. She had a very sombre expression on her face, gazing out at the massive crowd that had come to listen to the First Family speak. Will glanced down at a small ticker on the bottom of the screen, below the subtitles; it was scrolling little facts about the speech and Lithuania. Apparently, there was a record ten thousand people in attendance of the day’s appearance of America’s First Family speaking at the memorial.

Abigail’s speech ended and Molly murmured her approval of everything that had been said; the camera switched angles to show the entire stage constructed in front of the rebuilt American embassy. There had been three wreaths of flowers set out, two large, and one small. Will suspected that the smaller one for Mischa had been crafted by Hannibal himself; country flowers, perhaps the same types that had once grown in the back yard of the home in Paris that he once lived in with his family. Will pictured Hannibal picking and inspecting each individual bloom before placing it on the wreath.

The Lecters’ deaths had been the catalyst for revolt against the rise of communism in the country and while it would take more time before the country developed into the republic it was today, many in the country considered the martyred family to be heroes of the Lithuanian revolution. Besides, no one liked the fact that a baby had been killed by militants.

Hannibal was sitting on the stage left; he wore no hat, his hair slicked back and dark looking; a camel hair coat and dark brown leather gloves worked against the cold, covering a dark brown suit. A soft looking scarf had been wrapped neatly around his neck, cutting the chill and hiding the choice of tie for the event. To anyone watching, Hannibal’s face was the definition of carefully controlled mourning, but Will saw it as lack of emotion; Hannibal felt nothing, was simply going through the motions of the annual ceremony. He gave a rapid blink and Will narrowed his eyes, anticipating the tears Hannibal would call into existence for the sake of performance. And sure enough, Hannibal’s lips parted briefly in inhale and he wiped quickly at his eyes with a handkerchief. But it didn’t stop Will from wanting to kiss those sharp cheeks, murmuring reassurances that he wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt his family anymore—how could anyone hurt the ones the Chesapeake Ripper loved, anyway?

President Grybauskaitė, who was in the process of being reelected for a second term in 2014, stood next to speak to the crowd in attendance; she wore a simple black satin band around her upper left sleeve and the long hem of her skirt rippled in the breeze. She kissed both of Abigail’s cheeks again as she embraced her, speaking with her for a brief moment before making her way to the podium. While her speech was subtitled as well, she had delivered it in a mixture of English and Lithuanian, which made Will think of a joke he’d heard back in his early days of electioneering: 

_What do you call someone who speaks three languages? Trilingual. What do you call someone who speaks two languages? Bilingual. What do you call someone who speaks one language? American._

Will suddenly felt self-conscious that his high school creole French was shitty at this point; he really ought to brush up on it in his spare time. Who knew when it could be used? 

President Grybauskaitė’s speech lasted ten minutes by which time students began to show up. Will continued watching as Molly excused herself to get to their class; he nodded absently, muttering that he’d be along shortly.

Hannibal was at the podium and Will felt a tightness in his throat. Possessive warmth filled him and when Hannibal’s eyes made contact with his through the camera, Will couldn’t deny to himself any longer that the separation between them was a cancer, eating him away from the inside. The world around him started to fade away as Hannibal spoke:

“The Lecters have deep roots within Lithuania, and that part of my family’s heritage is something I am very proud of. My parents loved this country deeply and the love was passed on to myself as well. However, home has become in the arms of the ones who love me.”

Faintly, Will was aware that Matthew was reminding him it was time to leave. But Hannibal was looking right at him and in that moment, Will was lost once more. 

*****

Hannibal had hardly landed on the White House lawn before he was murmuring to his head agent that he wanted a private vehicle arranged to take him to Will’s for the evening so that he might be able to bring him a late dinner. Despite what the other man claimed his emotions to be, Hannibal was certain Will had stayed up late to make sure that the First Family had arrived back to the States safely. The kitchens had been informed ahead of time that he wished for certain ingredients to be waiting for him; he imagined that the evening chef was only too happy to comply for the President who could truly appreciate the culinary arts. While Abigail stretched out her limbs and headed off to bed, he quickly scrambled the eggs, preparing a fluffy omlette containing mushrooms, asparagus, and a melange of fresh herbs picked from the small planters on the countertop. Breakfast for dinner, he mused as he wished his daughter a good night. 

After contemplating and then forgoing any breakfast meats, he arranged the food onto a plate, adding a few toasted rolls that had been buttered, then covered it with a complimenting ceramic warming cover. 

The Secret Service ushered him into the waiting nondescript vehicle. As they rode out to Wolf Trap, Hannibal considered his appearance to the agents seated beside him and in front of him; oh, how admirable he must appear to everyone, the one who was dedicated to making the relationship work while Will kept drowning his sorrows in alcohol. 

Hannibal didn’t excuse the agents in the house before entering; he wanted the devoted Agent Brown to see that his presence in Will’s life would wax and wane, but never cease to exist. In the corner of the living room by the staircase stood Brown, who was neutral in expression, but his eyes were filled with such loathing that Hannibal nearly smiled. 

He didn’t have to call out for Will to know that the other man was aware he was there. However, he was surprised when the movement on the second floor became hurried and Will came running down the stairs.

Hannibal held up the plate of food for Will to see. “I’ve brought—“

“Fuck the food,” Will murmured and pulled him close.

At first, Hannibal saw the gesture as one of pining, that Will had missed him, and the distance had finally made enough of a difference to cause him to break. He closed his eyes and rest his cheek against Will’s, breathing in the scent of shampoo, his right hand still carefully holding the plate level so its cover wouldn’t fail and spill food all over the floor. Then Will rubbed the heel of his palm down his spine and he stiffened, recognising the gesture as one his relatives would give him when they saw him as a victim. No, Will hadn’t missed him, he felt **_sorry_** for him.

He tried to pull away, resisting the way Will touched him. “I don’t want pity.”

“It’s not pity, Hannibal. Jesus fucking Christ, you don’t even understand what love is when it’s given to you.” Will sounded tired and irritated, his hand still rubbing slowly.

“I am not a stray that needs physical contact to be stablised,” he said, his tone hostile.

“Are you feeling unstable?” Will murmured.

“Will,” Hannibal warned. 

“It’s not pity, Hannibal. Don’t tell me you don’t want this. I know you. I know you’re doing this to be difficult.”

“Stop.”

“No.” Will was trying to reassure him. “It’s not pity. I could never pity something like you.” Hannibal was forced to tighten his grip on the plate he was still balancing precariously. “I want to take your pain away.” Will’s voice became tender. “Haven’t you ever wished to take someone’s suffering away. Like your sister?”

“Are you saying I don’t love you because I don’t feel that way about you?” Hannibal asked stiffly, wanting Will angry enough at him to let him go.

But the comment did the opposite and caused Will to hold him closer. “Will you just shut up?

“I am not comfortable doing this with others staring at me, Will. At the very least, I would prefer in the privacy of your bedroom to this.” Hannibal refused to allow Will to strip him of his dignity, as much as he loved the man. But thankfully Will agreed and took a step back, allowing Hannibal to straighten his jacket.

“Grab the food and I’ll get that bottle of wine you left in the fridge.”

While he didn’t particularly agree that wine would compliment eggs and toast, Hannibal took the serving plate up the stairs, making direct eye contact with Agent Brown as he passed him, continuing onwards to the bedroom. Everything was always a power play, always a game, and while he didn’t appreciate Will trying to play him, at least they were demonstrating to others that their relationship was still intact.

When Will entered the bedroom, he was carrying simply the bottle of wine and the cutlery needed for the two of them to eat off the plate. 

“Where are the glasses I bought for you?” Hannibal asked as Will gestured for him to sit down on the floor beside the bed.

“In a landfill.”

Will punched the cork down into the bottle with the blade of the butter knife, splashing wine onto the braided cotton rug.

“This is rather undignified, Will,” Hannibal observed as Will took a drink straight from the bottle. 

“This is what you’ve signed up for.” He said it flippantly and while it irritated Hannibal, he knew knew now was not the time to start a fight.

“What made you change your mind?”

“I didn’t.” Will poked at an asparagus stalk with his fork. “I can’t deny that what we have between us…it’s stronger than my repulsion of what you are. And I’m not going to succumb to what you think I should become—I’m not giving up my morals just because I don’t have to fear God or Hell at the end of this.” Will’s voice became flat. “I am doing this because there is no other choice.” 

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “You have no choice but to return to me?”

Will took another drink of wine. “No, I’m not returning to you. I’m allowing _you_ to return to _me_.” 

“I see.” Hannibal smiled as well, willing to indulge his sweet boy. “Then I shall happily return to your loving arms.”

“Someone has to keep you out of trouble.” Hannibal gave a soft huff of laughter as Will continued. “Besides, no matter how nauseated I am by what you do, Abigail does need me back. She chose me to be her dad, too.”

“Are you protecting her from me?” Hannibal would not allow Will to poison their daughter against him. 

“No. But I know how shitty it feels to have a parent reject you. I made a commitment to being her dad—I can’t bail out just because it has become difficult and weird.”

“How noble of you.”

Will suddenly avoided his eyes again and Hannibal took the opportunity to feed him some of the omlette; after he finished chewing, Will said steady and firm, “I’m not letting you play with me anymore. I’m not your wind-up toy. You don’t just get to wind me up and watch me go.”

“You are so much more than a child’s toy to me, my dear Will.” Hannibal stroked the side of the younger man’s face. “Do you believe that if your love for me is pure enough, everything will simply work out?”

“Never.”

Hannibal smiled again. “Very good.”

Will leaned across the plate and Hannibal would have to be blind to not realise what it was that Will wanted. Their lips met and the soft pressure of their kiss sent a shiver up Hannibal’s spine, though he suppressed any movement. An errant tear was brushed away by Will’s thumb and Hannibal pulled him deeper into the kiss, aching for him. 

“I have missed this part of our relationship,” Hannibal murmured.

And he had. It felt natural and for him to be so close to his Will, tasting him, sharing his oxygen. While Hannibal considered the act of eating to be a ritual of enjoyment that was best uninterrupted, there were larger matters to attend to and the introduction of actual intimacy back into their lives came before the food. 

“I know you want me to eat, but I’d rather have sex with you,” Will told him, his voice low. 

“Food can be reheated,” he agreed, licking at Will’s lips.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Will whispered, trying stand up and keep his hold on Hannibal at the same time.

“You consume my thoughts.”

“A cannibal,” Will breathed against his ear.

“Yes, Will.”

Hannibal’s body was betraying him and he made the decision that there wasn’t much point in resisting the pleasure Will’s body gave his. Knowing that Will adored the thought of Hannibal surrendering, he decided to reward the younger man and play along.

Hannibal held Will’s face between his hands. “You will promise me that you’ll eat this food later.”

“I will.” Will kissed him again. “I promise.”

Will, despite what he thought, was always going to be a hungry man, his hands pulling at Hannibal’s clothing, wanting to undress him.

“Will,” he murmured, running his hands through Will’s unwashed curls.

“On the bed?”

Hannibal nodded and they hurried to remove the rest of their clothes; Hannibal folded his suit while Will rummaged through his nightstand for the bottle of lube. He lie back on the bed and Will was quick to join him; the room was noticeably cooler when one wasn’t dressed and Hannibal pulled the blankets up over their bodies, wishing the small space heater would do a better job at warming the room. Admittedly, it felt nice to have the weight of the younger man atop of him, to feel the heat of his skin against his own.

Their bodies moved in sync with one another, Hannibal’s legs parting as Will’s hand went between them. Their lips met once more and as Hannibal allowed himself to be stretched open, they indulged in nipping and licking at one another’s throats and lips. 

“I’ve missed you,” Will muttered into Hannibal’s shoulder as he rubbed the head of his cock against Hannibal’s thigh.

“Another,” Hannibal breathed, giving a small nod. 

He tipped his head back against the pillow, allowing a groan to escape as Will pressed another finger into him without hesitating. 

| 

“Good, baby?”

He winced slightly at the name, but let out a pleased gasp as he nodded again. “Yes.”

“I’ve missed being in a bed with you,” Will admitted after some time.

Hannibal’s hand began to stroke the other man’s erection. “I should have told the agents to expect for an overnight stay.”

“You’re staying the night.” Will’s voice didn’t quiet sound as though he was asking a question. 

“I would enjoy that.” Hannibal was confident he wouldn’t be told to leave, though he thought it would be best to impress upon his host that he did want to stay.

“I would, too,” Will said, his eyes darting away in sudden shyness. “Sorry the house is so drafty.”

“I’ll keep you warm tonight,” Hannibal promised. 

Will’s eyes met his again and with a look of utmost endearment, murmured, “I’ll let you.”

*****

While he couldn’t see the alarm clock on Will’s nightstand, Hannibal suspected that it was past midnight; the bed was comfortably warm and Will smelt of sweat, sex, and alcohol that was being worked out of his system. Will sighed quietly, hips still languidly rocking between his. Hannibal noted that Will’s body was still lighter than it should have been and his fingers skimmed along the prominent ribs, kissing the younger man’s shoulder to taste his cooling sweat; it seemed he was still drinking his calories rather than eating them, which was concerning. Hannibal made the mental note to bake another ratatouille, perhaps leave behind some rich vegan cakes. Will had always seemed so keen on desserts.

“Do you wish to make love again?” he asked as Will still hadn’t stopped the lazy, indulgent movement.

Will sighed again, a warm puff across Hannibal’s neck. “Yeah, just give me a few minutes.”

Hannibal kissed Will again. He personally didn’t need another orgasm tonight, but he loved Will in such a state. 

“Would you ever ask me to stop?” Hannibal inquired a few minutes later, curious if Will would ever dare bring the Chesapeake Ripper to a halt.

Will’s body stilled and he kept his face in the crook of Hannibal’s neck. “I know you wouldn’t.”

Hannibal’s hand came to rest on the back of Will’s curls as he stared at the ceiling. “But if you thought I might. Would you?”

“No, Hannibal. You know that I love you just the way you are.”

“You always sound so defeated when you say you love me.” Hannibal was somewhat amused by that.

“Falling in love is a state of being conquered.”

“And you managed to conquer me first,” Hannibal pointed out, willing to give credit where it was due.More quietude between them and then he asked, “Would you like to lie back?”

Will didn’t answer, but did allow Hannibal to rearrange them on the bed so that he was straddling the younger man; knowing he’d likely be sore in the morning, Hannibal began to stroke Will’s half-hard penis, encouraging more from him. The younger man moved along with Hannibal’s movements, his breath catching as arousal filled him once more. It took a few more minutes and then Will was positioning himself to enter into Hannibal again. Once they were comfortably joined,Hannibal leaned forward, bringing his lips to his lover’s ear.

“I love you, William,” he whispered, 

And there it finally was, the small, honest smile Will hadn’t been willing to share with him since September. 

“I love you, too,” Will replied.

Hannibal sat back up and closed his eyes, moaning softly for his own sake, wanting this moment to be as beautiful and intimate for Will as it was for him. Whatever barricade that had been between them was now crossed and he could feel that soon they would be reunited in stability. His head tipped back in bliss, allowing his thoughts to thin out so that he could instead focus on the fact he was going to have his Will soon.

*****

“Sorry, can’t get any sleep,” Abigail lied to her senior night agent. It was almost one in the morning and she’d been patiently waiting for her father to get home from Will’s, but she was beginning to suspect that he wasn’t returning. She had dressed in warm sweats and put on her tennis shoes; Winston had woken up and had looked at her curiously from the bed at the foot of hers; she had made a small kissing noise and he had risen, tail wagging slowly as he waited to see what she would do. Opening the door to her bedroom, she’d squinted at the sudden brightness of the spartan Centre Hallway. Her night agent had looked up from his magazine as she’d walked out and he’d quickly stood, looking puzzled. “Going to take Winston out for a bit.”

Her agent nodded and began to speak to his communicator. Taking that as a sign she was allowed to continue on as she pleased, she went to the small hall cupboard that had Winston’s leash. Clipping it to his collar, she led him and her three evening agents downstairs to the expansive front lawn. 

It was cold outside and she hunched her shoulders, wishing she was back in bed. But she didn’t complain and she didn’t allow herself to shiver as fully as she wanted to. The name of the game was patience and she made sure she maintained a casual attitude as she waited for the perfect opportunity to ask what she truly needed to know. 

The leash that Winston was on was much longer than average, allowing him to roam further from her. He had great interest in the cold, slightly dry lawn, relieving himself as she glanced out towards the fence surrounding the property; there were small lights along the fence line belonging to the protestors who lived at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave all year round. They were the most hardcore of the protestors that came to the White House, not because they were the type to pipe bomb, but because they had the stamina that most protestors’ passions couldn’t weather. As a rule, she didn’t like these pathetic bleeding heart liberals, but she could respect them for their dedication. 

Feeling that the time was finally right, she stood still and waited for her agent to come to rest beside her.

“Is my dad home yet?” she asked casually as Winston sniffed curiously at the base of the tree.

“No. Got word he’ll be staying the night out.”

“Oh, okay.”

She smiled towards the dark shadows that lined the property; if Will was accepting her father to stay over, chances were they’d finally made progress in defining where they stood with one another. Oh, this was so wonderful. She couldn’t wait for Will to return!

“C’mon!” she called to Winston, giving a gentle tug to the leash.

Winston happily trotted back to her and she reeled in the nylon length so that he was by her side as they walked back to the White House; she hummed softly as they made their way indoors. 

She politely greeted the cleaning staff who maintained the White House while the First Family rested and the public and employees were at home; she appreciated them more than most people realised—a clean home was lovely, but she fucking hated doing it herself and they alleviated her of the chores altogether. She’d have to see if she could get congress to raise their pay.

Back in her bedroom, she stripped out of the sweats folded them neatly, leaving them on the lid of her hamper; she could wear them tomorrow when she worked out. Winston was following her around the bedroom and bathroom, tail wagging. She pet him before leading him back to his bed and instructed him to lie down. Turning off her bedroom lights, she climbed back into her own very warm bed, mind completely at ease, knowing her family was coming back together.

*****

Hannibal awoke slowly to the feeling of Will’s warm breath on the nape of his neck; the room was cool and he shifted slightly under the heavy covers, the feeling of being held by someone the predominant matter on his mind. Sharing a bed with someone aside from Abigail or Mischa still didn’t settle right with him, not accustomed to adult bodies within so much of his personal space, though the fascination of having Will in such a vulnerable way certainly made the experience much more enjoyable. Will’s arm around him tightened, giving a shuddering exhale as he pressed himself against Hannibal. Hannibal gave a soft and pleased noise, still drowsy but content; he wanted to coax Will back into that sweet bliss they’d shared over the summer, where physical comfort was available whenever Will wanted.

Now very awake, Hannibal grabbed the bottle of thick lube Will had left on the top of the nightstand and poured a small amount in his hand to warm it, then turned onto his other side; he kissed Will hungrily as the younger man fought the urge to sleep and Hannibal grabbed Will’s cock firmly, coating it which coaxed a moan out of the other man. Then returning to lie on his other side, he allowed Will between his thighs, tightening his legs’ muscles to give the other man friction to thrust against. Will wrapped his arm a fraction tighter around Hannibal, sighing loudly as his hips rolled; Hannibal could argue that it was cheap,and not particularly creative to manipulate using sex, but it was quick and something Will responded so well to, touch-starved as he was. 

Will bit back a moan, panting into Hannibal’s shoulder blades as his arm around Hannibal loosened, hand traveling lower to find that Hannibal wasn’t erect.

“Touch yourself,” Will whispered, voice shaking. 

Hannibal smiled and did as told, his hand stroking himself mindlessly. Participation was something that he often didn’t prioritise unless he knew Will wanted a performance, much more interested in keeping his younger partner satisfied; Hannibal didn’t know if that could be considered selfless of him, but he’d accept that descriptor. He tilted his head so that Will had access to his neck, humming in pleasure as Will immediately took advantage of the exposed skin. 

“Oh god yes!” Will groaned into Hannibal’s neck.

“William,” Hannibal moaned helpfully, wondering if Will would want him to finish first. 

Will panted, his hand coming down to rest atop Hannibal’s as though monitoring progress and for a brief moment, Hannibal wondered if he’d receive a repeat of every rendezvous previous, where he’d been brought to the edge and denied. 

“Oh god—come for me, Hannibal,” Will begged and Hannibal obliged him, spilling into their grip with a sharp inhale. 

Will began kissing the back of Hannibal’s neck and along his shoulder, shifting around as he tried to chase after his own orgasm while doling out the tenderness he seemed to think Hannibal wanted during sex. It didn’t take long. 

“Fuckfuck _fuck_ ,” Will hissed as he released between Hannibal’s thighs, his hand gripping Hannibal’s hip hard enough to bruise.

Tipping his head back, he began kissing Will the best he could from the awkward angle and was pleasantly surprised to feel the smile on the other man’s lips. Will’s arm came back around to drape over Hannibal’s side, a gesture he read as both possessive and protective, and he sighed contentedly against Hannibal’s cheek, nuzzling him affectionately. The situation between Hannibal’s thighs was now uncomfortable and he was imagining the relief of washing off when Will finally spoke. 

“I could make you breakfast before you leave,” Will suggested, hopeful.

“Do you wish to make breakfast for me, Will?” He nearly smirked. 

At this, Will withdrew his touch and lie on his back. “You’re so hateful.”

Hannibal adjusted his tone so that he might be perceived as less ‘hateful’. “Do you wish to make breakfast for me, Will?”

“I don't know. I was just offering,” he muttered. 

It was Hannibal’s turn to lie on his side and place his arm across his partner’s torso. “You do know. You want to care for me,” he murmured, kissing at a pulse point on Will’s neck.

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“Nothing at all.” He pressed more kisses against his beloved’s skin, wrapping himself further around Will, an act of tenderness, the way a boa constrictor held its prey while it died. If Will believed that cooking for Hannibal was a selfless act of love, then Hannibal would not begrudge him.   
  
---  
  
It took a moment for Will to warm back up to him and he shifted slightly in Hannibal’s arms. “Do you want scrambled eggs?”

Hannibal breathed in the smell of the other man’s hair. “And toast.”

“And toast,” Will agreed, his voice soft, relaxed.

Hannibal was triumphant as he processed the minute intricacies of their closeness. Everything from this point onward would landslide towards what he wanted—soon, Will would find his way back to Hannibal’s bed, his former office, and his place at the dinner table. There was a short window of time in which Hannibal needed to operate and he began to quickly formulate plans accordingly: it would do well to formalise their relationship with a grand private gesture of some sort that would appeal to Will’s desire for stability. It would require a new set of family dynamics that Abigail would need to follow precisely in order for Will to feel comfortable, a new role for her to play with her innocent smile and bright eyes. There would have to be some sort of public acknowledgement that Hannibal had love for Will, allowing the understanding that the two men possessed something that surpassed friendship, letting that kernel of truth grow and swell until the entirety of the world knew that Will Graham had managed to charm the refined, titled Hannibal Lecter. Will would be seen as the crown jewel of American politics, a man who was both a kingmaker and—

“You know, I gave you a very rare gift, too.” Will’s voice interrupted Hannibal’s thoughts, soft and pained from heartbreak. “I gave you and Abigail my trust. And you took it just to break it.”

Hannibal felt something cold in the pit of his stomach—not fear, but apprehension. “Do you think you shall ever offer it to us again?”

“Would you?” Will’s eyes had watered. “You’ve only ever trusted me and Mischa and Abigail. And your aunt, too, from the way you talk about her. That’s four people. I only ever gave it to you and her. What if trust is a one-time offer? Had you considered that?”

Hannibal didn’t answer, allowing Will to take his silence as a form of apology. Propping himself up on his elbow to lean over him, Hannibal gazed down at the emotion on the other man’s emotions. His fingers stroked the side of Will’s face, thumb pad brushing over the stubble that had begun to grow. He kissed him once, then twice; when he pulled away, Will’s eyes were closed and Hannibal knew he was hiding tears that wanted to fall. 

“I shall cook you breakfast, Will,” he said quietly, listening to Will maintaining a steady breath.

Will neither spoke nor opened his eyes, just nodded his head once.

“My Will,” he whispered fondly against the other man’s lips, hoping that affection would force tears from him. 

But Will, his brave Will, didn’t cry, simply allowed Hannibal to kiss him; satisfied that Will wasn’t going to pity himself, he finally left the bed, cleaned and dressed himself in the bathroom, took the plate of last night’s dried food, and began to plan their food.

*****

As a rule, participating in live interviews was highly discouraged for both the President and the First Lady, but as to be expected from her family, no one really ever told her ‘no’. Which was how Abigail found herself in New York at Thirty Rockafeller Plaza in the MSNBC filming studios, having her makeup done for her appearance on camera. She was looking over the list of questions she was going to be asked, remembering the answers her father had told her to give. 

“Nervous?” Mrs Madchen asked her.

She gave her Chief of Staff a charming smile. “No.”

“Water, Abigail?” Georgia held up a water bottle with a straw in it.

Abigail took a quick drink from it. “Thank you.”

“You look beautiful,” Mrs Madchen approved.

“Thank you.”

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Abigail walked out to L-shaped glass desk that the studio cameras were focussed on; it was a commercial break and she sat down on the tall stool set on the opposite leg of the L-shaped desk, where extra make-up was brushed across her face and her Chief of Staff quietly coached her last minute to smile and speak clearly. Someone was hooking up a microphone and a ear piece to her. Despite her calm and quiet demeanour at the moment, she was definitely excited and anxious to have her first live one-on-one interview.

She shook hands with the host of the show, Martin Bashir, quickly exchanging hellos as they both wished one another a good interview. The next thing she knew, the producer was quietly signaling that the commercial break was coming to an end and they were about to go live. 

“Welcome to the show, First Lady,”Bashir greeted formally for the cameras, smiling at her brightly.

She smiled in return. “Thank you, Mr Bashir. It’s a pleasure to be on the show.”

“The First Lady and her father, President Hannibal Lecter, have started a very in-depth health and fitness oriented project called the ‘Get Up and Move!’ programme. Health is a very prominent part of the First Family’s life; First Lady Abigail was a successful rower on her high school’s crew team and for those of you who don’t know, President Lecter was a surgeon for the Kathleen Kennedy Memorial Clinic, founded by the President’s adoptive grandfather, the late Joseph Kennedy, Jr.”

“He’s still licensed actually,” Abigail added helpfully; she had always been proud of her father’s continual dedication to the field of medicine.

Bashir nodded, segueing into the discussion about her, which would lead to talks about her office’s work with ending poor nutrition. “Now this is the first time in recent history that the First Lady’s position has been filled full-time by someone other than the President’s wife.”

“Yes, the First Lady in the early days was filled by nieces, sisters, and cousins if the sitting president was a bachelor or widower. At the end of President Clinton’s second term, the position was held by his daughter Chelsea Clinton as her mother was running for senator—it was considered a conflict of interest if Secretary Clinton was both campaigning and working as First Lady. When my father first told me he was interested in running for office, I too wondered who would fulfill the role and was surprised to learn that I could have the job if I wanted. I was very honoured when my father told me that he would welcome me as the head of the East Office.” God, how many times had she had to explain this, each time with a smile that didn’t patronise.

Bashir nodded, reserved and appreciative that she’d given such a large sound bite. “That’s so wonderful that he trusted you with such an important job. It’s kept you very busy, too—up coming trips to China, the cooking videos for the White House YouTube channel, giving speeches for very important political issues.” His expression didn’t change. “So has the release of the video security footage from the night your first father, American serial killer Garrett Jacob Hobbs aka the Maryland Shrike, tried to kill you affected your ability to do your job as First Lady?”

Abigail was absolutely stunned by the sudden direction the interview had taken. “I beg your pardon?”

The journalist spoke even quicker, no doubt realising that his time interviewing her was going to be ended as soon as Mrs Madchen was able to object, which would be any second now. “Now, do you remember anything about that night? When you watched the video—which I’m sure you have—did it jog any memories loose?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t really—“

“I know it’s a sensitive question for you, but the public wants to know.”

“I think if the public realises it’s a sensitive topic, they’ll respect my decision not to answer.”

“Are you trying to hide something?” 

“Could we talk about the ‘Get Up and Move!’ programme instead, please?” she said weakly, feeling something within her crumble. 

He turned his attention back to the camera. “I’m being told—“ His voice lost its presenter’s tone. “They’ve already cut the feed.”

He turned to look at her curiously as a producer ran up, face red and eyes bulging. “Martin, office, _now_!”

Another producer rushed up to the desk, looking harried as she insisted, “Ms Lecter, I am so sorry—“

Mrs Madchen came storming up to the desk, her face angry and her movements rough. “Abigail, come here.”

“What just happened?” she asked, pulling off the microphone and earpiece as she stood. 

“They cut to commercial—you get away from her!” Mrs Madchen snapped, creating a shield between her and the show’s crew.

“Abbie! Oh my god!” Georgia cried out, rushing over to Abigail’s other side.

“Are we leaving?” Abigail asked, still not really sure what had happened. 

“Yes, we’re leaving!” Mrs Madchen turned back to the gathering show employees who were obviously trying to remedy the situation. “You will be hearing about this! Barney, we’re leaving.”

Barney swooped in behind them and Abigail suddenly found herself being rushed out of the building, the other agents sweeping the passages and hallways clear of anyone. Once they made it to the car, she was carefully pushed inside, her Chief of Staff sitting beside her and an agent on either side of Georgia, who sat across from them. As the motorcade pulled off the curb, Mrs Madchen suddenly turned to her and pulled her close into her arms. Abigail inhaled sharply in surprise, listening to the comforting words her Chief of Staff was saying to her.

“Abigail, I am so sorry he asked you those things. I never thought you would be ambushed on television like that. I knew it was risky to do a live interview, but your father’s done so well with the night shows, and we all thought that this would be okay—I mean, Morning Joe has always been good to your aunt, oh god, why on earth did I agree to this interview! We should have picked a different host—that Lawrence O’Donnell would have never done this to you.” Mrs Madchen was rambling and Abigail wasn’t sure what to do. 

“Mom, let her go,” Georgia said gently and Mrs Madchen slowly released her. “Are you okay, Abigail?”

“I’m okay. Just a little…” She actually wanted to laugh, but knew that would be a horribly inappropriate reaction to give. “Did that _really_ happen?”

“Yes. And I am so sorry you were put through that.”

“What…” She considered that this botched interview would probably change the policy for television appearances from now on. “Does it mean for the White House?”

Her Chief of Staff settled back into her seat heavily and gave an angry snort. “Well, we’re getting an apology for starters.”

God, she didn’t sleep on a plane after a round trip to Lithuania for this kind of garbage. She sighed and settled back in her seat. Frankly, she didn’t really care what happened—as long as none of it was her fault and didn’t give her any problems at home, it didn’t matter. Giving a small sigh, she glanced over at her assistant. 

“Georgia, could I have my headphones and music, please?”

“Yeah, just a second.” Georgia quickly opened the Louis Vuitton Neverfull that Abigail had gifted her to carry all her things. Will’s little messenger bag was cute, but she preferred black Epi leather to waxed canvas.

Now surrounded by her music, Abigail turned her attention out the window to watch the world pass by; there were people on the sidewalks pausing to take photos of her passing motorcade, escorted by NYPD motorcycles and patrol cars.The windows of her vehicle were coated in a tint that prevented anyone from looking in so there was no obligation for her to wave in acknowledgement or any humour in flipping them off. Cross traffic was halted so that their procession could pass through the streets unhindered; they were driving back the entire way to Washington DC, which in terms of security, it was certainly safer to just take one of the powerful olive green helicopters to and from the White House, but her father had thought there was a certain panache to their motorcade and admittedly, it made Abigail feel very regal to the centre of such attention.

Her phone buzzed and when she checked the text, she saw it was from her father.

<< _He is rather overrated as an interviewer_ >>

She smiled and typed back, << _Unfortunately for him_ >>

Tucking her phone away, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to slip away into daydreams of Marissa.

*****

Will was angry and anxious after learning of the botched interview. Molly had shown it to him on her phone and he’d watched it an additional two times on his laptop, sighing in frustration. While he wished to phone up the station to voice his complaints for Bashir’s behaviour, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. And there was also the temptation to get in contact with the White House, so that he could find out exactly how Jack Crawford planned on retaliation for what had happened. The paternal desire to seek revenge and protect stirred in Will and he nodded weakly as Molly began to speak rapidly about her thoughts on what had happened.  

*****

Abigail had spent an hour and half in the floral department of the Residence’s basement discussing the stupid cornucopia displays that were to be placed around the White House when Barney indicated to her and Georgia that their presence had been requested back in the First Lady’s office. Upon reaching her office, Mrs Madchen nodded her head back towards of the room.

“Abigail, you’re needed in your conference room.”

Barney sat down at his regular post and she steeled herself as she entered the conference room with Georgia, the door being shut gently behind her. As she seated herself slowly at the table, she studied everyone’s anxious faces. 

“Is everything all right?” she asked, apprehensive she’d screwed up at some point and was now having to face repercussions. 

“It’s uh…” The security advisor wasn’t able to look her in the eyes and he had a slightly red tinge to his cheeks. 

“Abigail, since you are now legally ‘of age’, companies have sought to use your image to sell their products,” her father said calmly, his words hiding everything he was trying to communicate. 

“Oh?” She wasn’t quiet sure what he meant by that and imagined that maybe there had been someone like Johnson & Johnson had used her face in an advertisement, which, while stupid, wasn’t exactly a security matter, was it?

“Pornographic companies,” her father then clarified.

Georgia made a strangled noise beside her and Abigail found she was at a loss for reactions. “Oh. Really? What are they doing?”

As the words left her mouth, she realised how stupid that had sounded—it was obvious what they were _doing_ , but what she wanted to know was how exactly they were exploiting her likeness. “I mean, what exactly is the situation?”

“We’re seeking an injunction against them on the grounds that they’re using your image and likeness with your name,” her family lawyer, Mr Gunderson, began to explain. “She’s performing under the name ‘Abby Lector’ with an ‘O’ instead of an ‘E’.” The lawyer paused and folded his hands on the table. “Obviously the viewers know it’s not actually you performing the acts, but the insinuation that it _is_ , is problematic. Kim Kardashian is going through the same thing right now—porn star using the name ‘Kim K.’ and replicating outfits, photo shoots, and appearances for her videos. We’re working closely with Kardashian’s legal team to see what kind of grounds we have to stand on.”

Abigail glanced over at her father and saw the disgust written on his face that they were stooping to the level of consorting in the realm of reality stars.

The security advisor continued. “Now, we’ve blocked the sites here at the White House and other government agencies, and anyone searching for it on any of the computers or wifi here will be flagged immediately.”

“What are the videos of?” She was aware that porn filled a wide range of topics. “I’d like to know what she’s doing.”

“Here’s a list.”

A piece of paper from a file that the security advisor had in front of him was passed over to her and she browsed the handful of titles that had been printed and italicized. Abigail wasn’t very interested in porn—very rarely did they portray anything that could actually get her wet. And to be fair, most snuff films failed her, too; her fantasies were a little too specific and it was easier to visualise things in her mind palace while she fingered herself. But there was a certain novelty to knowing there was someone out there in the world presenting a very different version of the self she presented to the world. And despite the ‘scandalousness’ of the topics, (Naughty school girl? How pedestrian. Secret Service gangbang? So gauche. Seducing a French diplomat? _Boring_.) they were so vanilla compared to what she really was inside. She hid a smile as she drank some water from the glass that had been positioned before her seat, considering if she might like watching her doppleganger reenact some of her dreams about Marissa. Yes, she’d pay lots of money to watch that. Then maybe pay even more to shoot the lookalike in the head, string her up, and gut her after eating her tongue and lips. Now _that_ would be worth a videotape.  

“It seems she’s been busy,” she commented in a calm way, hoping everyone else in the room would interpret that as trying to swallow down emotions. 

“We’re estimating that they’ve been preparing for this since the inauguration. Obviously they couldn’t release them before your eighteenth birthday as that would definitely be the impersonation of a minor in a sex film,” the security advisor continued.

She was certain that only she noticed her father’s body language change in the subtle way it did when he was annoyed with how someone spoke, and noting his discomfort, she asked, “When did they upload them?”

“Your birthday.” 

“I’m not surprised.” Back during the summer, Marissa had shown her a forum that was dedicated to the countdown of when she’d be finally ‘legal’, which had been so stupid—like she’d ever fuck someone who dedicated themselves to waiting for her. “May I see the file, please?”

“No, Abigail,” her father said firmly and the file wasn’t passed over to her side of the table.

Returning her attention back to the ‘Miss Lector Goes to Washington’ title of the paper, she considered how she wanted to approach this. At least it was creative, she couldn’t deny that. “Is that the name of the series? Or just one of the videos? Has the company releasing them announced any more? And are these direct-to-DVDs or streaming on a site?”

A grotesque thought passed through her mind as the others looked too shocked to answer her: if there were videos involving characters based on members of the Washington DC world she lived in, what was to stop them from crossing the line that depicted something incestuous between herself and her father? Feeling a bit frantic, she tried to control her voice as she quickly added, 

“All I ask is that she be barred from performing anything that looks like…” 

Her father’s voice was kind when she was unable to finish verbalising the thought. “I have already told them not to allow that.”

She nodded, letting out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.” 

“We’re not going to let her make money off of this, Miss Lecter. There are limits to what the First Amendment covers.” 

She nodded, though truthfully, it didn’t bother her either way. 

“Well, I appreciate everything everyone is doing for me. I’m not going to let this get to me—there are so many worse things that could happen to a person. There are people starving, cold, sick…how can I complain?” She gave everyone a smile. “Thank you everyone for your help. It means a lot.”

She looked to her father and he gave a minute nod of his head, indicating permission for her to be excused from the table. As she stood, so did everyone else, including her father. Georgia and Mrs Madchen followed her out and immediately began to fawn over her, desperate to comfort her over the perceived wrongs. Abigail politely excused herself from them as well, heading out of her office with Barney down the hall. There was an empty office at the head of the hall and she went in it, telling her agent that she just needed a moment to herself. 

The office held a private restroom and Abigail went immediately to the mirror; staring at her reflection in curiosity, she considered the reality of the situation she’d found herself in. There were people in the world who wanted to objectify her, to exploit her. It was in its own way humourous, sure, but she knew that within a few weeks the novelty would be lost—interviews would start to centre around them, comedians would bring it up when they mentioned her, people would discredit her based on them as though they were her fault. She sighed. Now it made sense why her father hadn’t found it as amusing as she had at first, why he’d expressed concern about what was happening and why their lawyers—private and White House—were involved.

Somewhere in America, there was a lookalike pretending to be her, having sex in her likeness.

Abigail made a face at the mirror that she associated with orgasm, studying her expression.No, she wanted something that was a little more seductive, something so that she could recognise her own expression when compared side by side to Miss Lector Goes to Washington. She slowly unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse as she parted her lips in what she interpreted as a seductive manner.

Ugh, she had no idea what she was doing. Just recycling the faces of paintings and sculptures and movies. Really, she should be doing this when she was with Sutcliffe and make sure a mirror was present so she could decide what faces got the best response. She shrugged and left the bathroom. 

*****

“So you’re staying here for Thanksgiving?” Sutcliffe asked her that evening as they redressed in his office; the White House had announced the new plans for the First Family’s holiday schedule that morning at the daily press briefing.

Her father was at a last minute conference regarding security concerns in Sochi’s olympic village and nearly everyone else had gone home for the night, leaving Abigail relative privacy to carry on with the West Wing’s Lieutenant Chief of Staff.

She fixed the pleats of her skirt. “Yes. Yourself?”

“Have to fly out to California. My ex won’t let me fly the kids out here for Thanksgiving, so I have to go out there.”

Abigail often forgot that Sutcliffe was separated from his wife and had kids who now lived across country; honestly, she didn’t really care much about his personal life, worried that if she did, it might give him the impression she wanted more out of their relationship.

“But I’m borrowing an old classmate’s condo,” he continued. “He’s going up to Idaho for the holidays, so he said I could use it.”

“That’s nice,” she said, feeling indifferent to it entirely. 

She was relieved they didn’t really kiss—just awkward pecks and one time he’d had his tongue down her throat—nothing intimate or caring towards one another. Before the opportunity could even present itself, she took a step back and gave a friendly, but not flirtatious smile.

“I have to get dinner started, so I’ll see you later.”

“Right, yeah, see you,” he muttered as he tried to find a missing cufflink.

She nodded and left his office, shutting the door behind her. Barney and her senior evening agent were waiting outside, neither willing to meet her eyes; perhaps she lacked the shame other people might have when it came to knowing their sex life was monitored rather closely, and maybe they didn’t like having to wait around while she got her rocks off, but she was certain that she wasn’t the worst possible assignment they could have. 

As she was led back to the Residence, she remained quiet and nonchalant, indifferently browsing through her official twitter feed to see who was still retweeting her message from that morning about her excitement to be assisting at one of the women’s crisis shelters downtown; Secret Service had already began their surveillance of the place the night before and would continue to do so until after she’d left on Thanksgiving afternoon. Did she feel guilt that they did so much work to keep her safe and here she was, using the time given to her to fraternise with one of her father’s staffers?

No.

People were meant to be used and she was very good at seeing to it that they were. Would she abuse the privilege for the sake of it? No. That would be rude.

“Got everything you need?” Barney asked when they reached the Residence.

“Yes. Thank you.”

His expression softened and he smiled at her.“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Okay. Have a good evening.”

“Good night, Abigail.”

*****///*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +The 1936 Winter Olympics were held in Germany. Italy did not actually place for any medals during the competitions, though during an unofficially recognised Military Patrol competition (precursor to the biathlon), they scored highest and were rewarded favourably by then dictator Benito Mussolini. 
> 
> \+ Princeton University is located in Princeton, New Jersey. Hannibal’s father was probably a member of the Cottage Club.
> 
> +Sweet Briar College: all woman’s school, located in Sweet Briar, Virginia. Janet Lee Bouvier (Jacqueline Kennedy’s mother) was a student there. On March 3, 2015, the college announced it would be closing at the end of the summer session.
> 
> +Martin Bashir was a host on MSNBC. He was suspended following the comments he made about Sarah Palin (Senator John McCain’s running mate during the 2008 presidential elections, former governor of Alaska). During suspension from the show, it was decided that he would not be returning to his show and his contract with MSNBC was terminated. In the Aristocrat Universe, Bashir didn’t make comments about Palin. 
> 
> +Lawrence O’Donnell hosts ‘The Last Word with Lawrence O’Donnell’ on MSNBC. He partnered with UNICEF to create the K.I.N.D. fund, which provides desks to African schools and scholarships for young girls in Malawi to attend school. 
> 
> +’Morning Joe’ is a morning show on MSNBC with hosts Mika Brzezinski, Joe Scarborough, and Willie Geist.
> 
> +There are Kim Kardashian ‘parody’ porn films starring Kendra Lust, Nikki Benz, Kiara Mia and Lela Star. I won’t link them here, but if you are curious, all you have to do is search for ‘Kim K parody porn’ to get the most results. And no, I didn’t research them for the fic.
> 
> +The First Amendment of the United States Constitution protects freedom of speech. 
> 
> +Gerber pocket knives are common in the US.
> 
> +A watch cap is a close-fitting knitted cap of a kind worn by members of the U.S. Navy in cold weather.
> 
> +Dalia Grybauskaitė’s is Lithuania’s first female president. She is known as the Iron Lady of Lithuania or “Steel Magnolia”. She speaks Lithuanian, English, French, Russion, and Polish She also has a black belt in karate!


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between Nov 18 to 22, 2013

Will had watched Martin Bashir’s apology twice, highly annoyed and dissatisfied with it; it would have been one thing if he’d simply asked her something awkward that put her on the spot, but he’d ambushed her with the questions and it was obviously something he’d planned. Washington Post had already written a scathing article accusing him of using these same tactics on Michael Jackson in the highly controversial interview he’d conducted in 2003; he didn’t doubt that someone had been fired in the White House for greenlighting an interview with someone who had been accused of yellow journalism in the past. Again, the New York Times called Bashir’s journalism style ‘callous self-interest masked as sympathy’.

He was still in a bad mood when Matthew took him to the shooting range in the basement of the Treasury Department; he’d not ever wanted to equate stress relief with pulling a trigger and was incredibly disappointed at how therapeutic these shooting lessons were. Much to his relief, a senior agent was at the range that afternoon and had enthusiastically offered to show Will a few tricks to proper posture while firing; Will accepted her help, knowing it was important not to allow Matthew any further excuse to think there might be something between them. 

“Wow, great grouping, Mr Graham!” Matthew complemented as they brought in the target he’d been practicing with.

“Yeah,” Will muttered, hoping his frustration wasn’t based on the desire to shoot a certain journalist in retaliation. 

“You’re getting really good at this,” the other agent said, studying the paper target. “If you want, we can give you a tactical training course.”

“No. No, I don’t want to use this to kill someone.” He was embarrassed and felt weak to admit that—the Secret Service didn’t have qualms using a gun or other deadly force to defend his life and yet he knew it was something so ugly that he never wanted it part of him. After all, he was already covering up the murders that Hannibal and Abigail had committed; there was something so hypocritical and a rush of shame swept through him.

But of course the other agent had no idea what he was thinking and she shrugged, not at all offended. “No problem. Not everyone’s comfortable with it. That’s why not everyone ends up a Secret Service agent.”

He nodded, his eyes avoiding. “Right.”

*****

Secret Service had been cleared from the main floor to grant Hannibal and Will the privacy both deserved; Hannibal knew that Will felt a small guilt that the men and women meant to protect them were forced down into the cool cellar or the blustery outdoors, but thankfully thoughts such as those never plagued Hannibal. 

Tonight Hannibal had convinced Will that together they could cook dinner for the two of them; taper candles had been lit and placed on the kitchen’s table and a fire in the living room’s fireplace provided the minimal background noise in lieu of music. Hannibal fully intended to have the house upgrade to efficient propane heaters sometime in the near future—he did not find any sort of romance in suffering the cold air trapped inside the building.

A small blip on his cellphone indicated it was one of his cousins trying to reach him through text messages and he gave a quick disapproving look to his cellphone, which he’d set on the kitchen counter by Will’s coffee maker.

“You can check your phone—it’s okay,” Will told him as he chopped the top off of a carrot.

Under normal circumstances he would disagree, but he already had a suspicion as to who it was and when he checked his messages, his suspicions were confirmed.  

“My cousin Patrick’s wife has gone into labour,” Hannibal announced. 

While Hannibal didn’t have any emotional investment in the success of his cousin’s wife’s pregnancy, he was expected as the doctor of the family to reply to every asinine text about a medical related question and this was no exception. While he had little expertise in maternity care, all that mattered to anyone was that he had the MD title at the end of his name. 

“Oh, congratulations,” Will replied in the absent way one commented on something they didn’t actually know how to answer otherwise. 

Hannibal set the phone on silent and set it back on the counter. “They are expecting a girl.” 

Will gave a small smile as he started peeling the stack of carrots he’d set on the cutting board. “And because you’re a doctor, they’re double checking everything with you.”

“It would seem.”

Will didn’t look up from his task. “Patrick wants you to comment publicly tomorrow on the new baby so that he can remind the public that the two of you are related.” 

“Naturally.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No. A wolf does not mind feeding first and allowing the smaller animals his scraps.”

That earned a wry smile from Will and Hannibal wished that the other man knew exactly how beautiful he looked through his eyes. Perhaps that was why Will feared a relationship with him. 

Finished with the sweet potatoes he’d cubed to roast in the oven alongside the vegetables Will was preparing, heset his knife down on the counter, straightened it neatly and then turned to the other man.

“Marry me, Will.”

Will smirked, glancing over at him briefly. “Really? That’s how you’re proposing to me?”

Hannibal gave him a fond, but very amused look and dropped to one knee beside Will; Will continued peeling the carrots, glancing down at him briefly before ignoring him completely. Hannibal gave a put upon sigh and removed something small and favoured from his vest pocket.

“My father’s ring.”

Will glanced down at him a second time and while he was attempting to remain cool and indifferent, Hannibal could smell the sudden rush of adrenaline to hit his system as he turned back around to the sink. “I’m not wearing a ring.”

Hannibal patiently remained on his knee until Will finished the carrot he was working on, then took Will’s hand, placing the ring in his palm regardless of what Will had said, folding his fingers closed over it. “It is your choice.”

Will sighed and looked down at the ring. It was a simple gold band, the plating worn in several areas from being worn decades ago. Hannibal had kept his parent’s rings not out of nostalgia, but because Lady Murasaki and Uncle Robert had kept them for him and he thought of them as proof that his family had been stripped from him without his permission. Upon adopting Abigail, he’d intended to save his mother’s wedding band for the unlikely event she was married, but it seemed that the most unimaginable scenario was happening and he was the one who was relying on the familial significance of the rings.

Will’s voice was contemplative, nostalgic. “My dad once told me that marrying into the Kennedys was dangerous. That you were all ticking time-bombs, just waiting to drag others into your tragedies.”

Hannibal’s lips quirked slightly at the corners. “I’m not a Kennedy, Will.”

Will glanced back up at him, an eyebrow raised. “Do you want me to wear it?”

“What we have is more sacred than a vow or ring.” Hannibal’s fingers brushed across the scar on his palm 

Will nodded, understanding. “Scars remind us.”

Hannibal kissed his palm reverently. He could smell gun shot residue on his wrist. “I love you, Will.”

“I love you, too.” Will set the ring carefully in an empty sugar bowl by the sink, his lips momentarily betraying his pleasure. He turned back to Hannibal and nodded his head to the food. “Come on, this isn’t going to cook itself.”

Only when the food was cooked, plated, and they were sitting at the table did Will initiate any form of conversation.

“I want to talk to you about Abigail.” Will was slicing into one of the pan-seared scallops on his plate, a determined focus that kept him from making eye contact with Hannibal.

Hannibal nudged one of the fava beans by the edge of the plate with his fork. “Of course.”

“You need to let her go. She lacks free will.” Will looked up. “She’s not able to think for herself.” Then he quickly amended, “No, what I mean is: she’s not able to allow herself her own opinions. She might like something, but if she knows you don’t, she forces herself to hate it. So much that she believes she does hate it. And if she doesn’t like something, but knows that you do, she forces herself to like it. And not just with you, but with me. There were little things I noticed, but didn’t quite…understand. Didn’t see that she wasn’t just trying to take an interest in my life, but that she was actually adapting her own thoughts to keep me happy. That’s how a prisoner thinks, Hannibal. Someone who doesn’t have a choice.”Will looked very troubled. “I don’t want her to think of me like that. I don’t want her to like things just because I do. I don’t want her convincing herself that she really likes it just so that she’ll know I’ll be happy with her. That’s sick.” He returned to cutting at the scallop. “I want her to go to school. I know you don’t—that you hate the idea of her learning from someone other that you, but I know you and you won’t be happy with a pretty doll that does nothing with herself. She should be given the opportunity to try out college and university in a more serious capacity. And if she hates it, she can drop out.”

“She will not drop out if she commits to a degree, Will. I would not accept that.” Hannibal cut into a small carrot on his plate. “I will permit her to continue with her education, if that is what you wish.” 

Will shook his head as though Hannibal was missing the point of the conversation entirely. “No, it’s not about what you and I want. It’s about what _she_ wants. I think she wants to go to school, so I want her to get to do that. We have to give her permission for her own decisions. And we can’t influence her decisions. It’s not fair to her.”

“And you’ll take my word that I’m not going to influence her behind your back.” Hannibal suspected that Will had formed a plan of action to commit to behind his back in hopes of swaying Abigail to his mental process.

Will shook his head. “I won’t take your word.”

“I have expectations of her.”

“Hannibal, she’s done things that no one her age could ever accomplish without you. She is one of a kind. There will never be anyone like her. She’s become…” he trailed off. Apparently Will was trying not to mention her body count as something he considered an accomplishment. Hannibal offered a small smile as he brought his wine glass to his lips. “She can be so much more,” Will finally finished.

“All parents wish for their children to achieve more than they have,” Hannibal agreed.

“I want her to _do_ more than either of us. I don’t want her to have anymore complexes then she’s already got. I want her to be happy.”

Hannibal considered what Will was asking, what it was he desired. “Be careful what you wish for, Will.”

“She’s going to turn out okay if we just let her be herself.”

“You sound very sure.”

Will’s eyes narrowed slightly before he aggressively pursued a been on his plate. “You seem to think her default setting is ‘psychopath’.”

“I have known her her entire life, Will. There is a reason I’ve guided her on the path she’s on.” Before the other man could protest further, Hannibal gently ordered, “Eat your dinner, Will. I intend to have you for dessert tonight.”

Will’s eyes met his, startled, and Hannibal smiled at him kindly, which caused a small blush to appear on the younger man’s cheeks as he returned his attention to the plate before him. Hannibal knew he would never tire of seeing Will so breathless and shocked at the way he phrased things; he imagined he could hear Will’s heart beating faster, could certainly smell the adrenaline and impending arousal. Hannibal smiled at him once more while he savoured the small bite of scallop he’d brought to his mouth. Will looked up at him once more and while there was that dreamy look to them, there was also a new, raw edge that reminded Hannibal that Will knew who he was now and that their relationship would never be that shy dance they’d had throughout the summer. 

Unblinking, Hannibal watched Will eat the rest of the vegetables on his plate, carefully picking each fava bean with the sharp tines of his fork, chewing slowly, making Hannibal’s mouth water. Well behaved and wanting to keep Hannibal happy, Will ate all of his food and Hannibal committed to washing the dishes as he didn’t want to leave them for Will to finish for him in the morning. But Will refused to dry them, simply setting them in the dish drying rack and taking Hannibal by the hand, leading him upstairs.

*****

*****

Will—who had never truly, _honestly_ believed that anyone would want to marry him—was still riding off the high of the cocktail of emotions from the night before. In the kitchen, Matthew had brought over a few boxes of cereal and a carton of milk, setting them on the counter. He watched as Will put away the dried dishes from the night before. 

Matthew poured coffee into a mug for Will, then some into his travel thermos. “Good dinner, Mr Graham?”

Will nodded and unable to contain his happiness, a smile fought its way to his lips. “He asked me to marry him.”

There was no hiding the disappointment that showed in the agent’s face, his expression instantly somber. “And you said ‘yes’.”

Will was quiet, nodding. Matthew’s despair pooled through him, slow and angry; Will tried to fight the bitter feeling that seeped through his skin, wanting to focus instead on the warm serenity Hannibal gave to him. Hannibal had the luxury of little conscious and with that, it bought Will safety of feeling only selfish happiness. As she watched Matthew lots of sugar to his coffee, no different than his usual routine, he noted the existing tension in his movements. 

Will looked away and contemplated the cereal boxes: Applejacks, Coco Puffs, and plain cheerios. 

“Thought you might like something sweet,” Matthew muttered.

“Not really a sugary kind of guy,” Will murmured in reply, grabbing for the cheerios. 

*****

November 22rd was undoubtably the most important day in Bedelia’s pantheon of Kennedy worship. The anniversary of the assassination of Uncle Jack, the man who inspired everything she was now, the man she was born too late to meet. Today she’d be amongst family, and she was proud to bring members of her own adopted clan, the President of the United States and the First Lady. Hannibal and Abigail were powerful talismans—two who’d survived violent and fatal encounters. It was healthy to have them within their family tree, new blood to feed the root structure that while still strong, needed more. 

She’d listened to ‘Sweet Caroline’ six times this morning to put her in the right mood for seeing her family, humming along as she dressed herself for the day. Bedelia avoided donning the colour black for the most part and today was no exception: her large rabbit felt hat was a bold turquoise that matched the warm pashmina draped around her neck; her wool dress coat was a deeper blue, but she did have concerns it was heavy enough to wrinkle the kelly green silk of her blouse underneath. Her belt, gloves, and boots were all black leather and a small tennis bracelet of diamonds adorned her wrist, hidden beneath the cuff of her glove.

Grandpa Joe, her father’s father, had always told his children, _“There’ll be no crying in this house,”_ which later became shortened to, “Kennedys don’t cry”. Even Uncle Ted had confirmed this one evening when he told her, _“_ _All of us absorbed its impact and molded our behavior to honor it. We have wept only rarely in public.”_ This had been true for grandchildren as well, though to a lesser extent; as a child, she’d found great success in crying hysterically at not getting her way, which her daddy and mummy found alarming, which in turn meant they gave her what she wanted. But as she’d grown older and Hannibal had taught her self discipline, she’d stopped using tears for impact, realising that her Grandpa Joe had been so right and that Kennedys were not meant to cry—she’d held back tears when she addressed Benjamin’s death in 1999 on the steps of Capitol Hill for the press, and she’d hold them back today as well. Even so, her mascara was the waterproof kind. 

In the motorcade that would take them from the White House to Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, Bedelia sat in the seat apposing Hannibal and Abigail. Her niece was dressed in a mustard yellow dress with a heavy rhubarb cardigan and tall brown leather boots. Hannibal had donned a refined and complementing navy blue, accented with hints of maroon.

“You look beautiful, Aunt Bee,” Abigail told her, eyes full of wonder.

Somewhat overwhelmed with emotions, a genuine sense of mourning that so rarely plagued her, she nodded once and touched the small gold ring Aunt Jackie had given her for her eighth birthday. No one serving in her White House had ever met him and that seemed like an extreme tragedy; she imagined this was how other people felt about the knowledge they were two-thousand years too late to meet Christ.

The ride to the cemetery was slow, their motorcade only moving forty-five miles per hour at its fastest. Abigail had come to relax herself against Hannibal’s side, her head tilted onto his shoulder; her eyes maintained contact with Bedelia’s, almost unnerving in their unblinking focus. 

“My interactions with Bedelia’s Aunt Jacqueline were very limited,” Hannibal explained in his usual placid manner. “She sent me annual birthday and Christmas cards; though she did purchase a set of medical encyclopedias upon my entrance to John Hopkins and then gifted me a very attractive Montblanc fountain pen when I graduated.”

“She died the year after I married.” Bedelia’s voice felt sounded small and she imagined it held a grandiose weight. “She gave me the most lovely silver serving tray—engraved with the date of the wedding.”

Returning her attention to the window, she considered the amount of security today to provide them the necessary protection from any lunatics that might want to recreate the assassination of JFK. For decades, millions around the world had speculated what the truth was behind her late uncle’s tragic death—no, it had been none of those things, which she’d learned upon taking office. 

Hannibal had very graciously retrieved the classified files for her to look over and she’d found something so horrifyingly simple and undignified for such a great man. The reasoning for killing her late uncle had been simply for money—a dreadful man had been performing increasingly outrageous stunts for money and somewhere along the way, Lee Harvey Oswald had felt he could complete one of the tasks set before him by killing her uncle. She watched the leafless trees clawing the overcast sky and wished she didn’t know he’d pulled the trigger twice for the hopes of receiving five thousand dollars. Not even a proper sum of money to kill an average person in 1963 and he’d stripped the world of its most important person.

Within her first month in office, nearly every member of her large extended family had requested that she find out the truth behind the death. “He was murdered by a man who was unwell,” she told them all and left it at that. No one had been satisfied by the answer, but they all believed it, because no one would believe Bedelia capable of lying.

At her Uncle Jack’s funeral, Aunt Jackie had lit the Eternal Flame, still burning solomnly on its own. Bedelia was handed a bouquet of roses by Alana, which she carried up to the final resting place of her uncle. She set the flowers down and went to join the other family members who’d arrived. Cousins and their children had dressed in their finest, mingling quietly as they said hellos they would otherwise reserve for their summer meetings or the winter holidays. There was sorrow here, but also the celebration of life. 

Abigail placed a bouquet of white easter lilies beside the Eternal Flame, nodding her head in reverence. The event was already being filmed by the major news stations and Hannibal lingered by the large laurel and white flowered wreath that she would be presenting at the grave site with him. Caroline had arrived and Bedelia held her in a tender embrace until the other woman gently patted her shoulder and assured her that it was very kind that she and Hannibal had shown up for the event. Bedelia longed to insist that this wasn’t a small matter, that this was the most important remembrance in her life, but now wasn’t the place or time to draw attention to herself. Instead, she promised her cousin that she and Hannibal were doing everything they could to keep Uncle Jack’s vision of America alive and well.

This was the fiftieth anniversary of his death.

Bedelia looked at the Eternal Flame, considering what the world would look like if her late uncle had been allowed to complete two full terms. She’d seen Lana Del Rey’s little homage to the mystique of her famous aunt and uncle and while she couldn’t say she found the portrayal of their image to be very inspiring, the entire ambiance of the music video had been entirely how she herself imaged Camelot to be. It was her idea of heaven. Wasn’t the nation yearning for it, too?How _dare_ the world have continued turning after his death. She knelt before her late uncle’s marker and closing her eyes, she began to pray silently. _‘Uncle Jack, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…’_

*****

Will rest on the couch, relaxing against Hannibal as he graded the papers that had been turned in by his Advanced Theories of Comparative Politics class; Hannibal was feeding him grapes and sliced fruits from a White House china salad plate, reading over his shoulder, though keeping his comments to himself. 

“We need to set down some ground rules,” Will murmured, circling a grammatical error in red pen. 

“What did you have in mind?” Hannibal asked, no doubt intrigued at the thought of playing their little game by new preset perimeters. 

“No feeding one another something without their knowledge, intentionally. So you can’t…” he made a gesture between them that would have to take the place of ‘feed me people’, “and I can’t feed you twinkies.”

“Agreed.” Hannibal kept his hand at Will’s mouth and obediently, Will sucked the juices off his fingers. 

“Abigail can’t be given any more of whatever that tea was the night I came over and she was higher than Keith Richards.”

Hannibal tapped his finger to a spelling mistake Will had missed. “I shall not agree to it, but I will take it into consideration.”

“Hannibal…”

A grape was offered to him and he hesitated a second before eating it.  

“I assure you that it is completely safe, Will. I wouldn’t take a risk with her.”

Will shook his head. “No, I can’t agree to it.”

Apparently Hannibal considered the matter done. “What are your other demands?”

“Don’t make me sound unreasonable,” Will mumbled, momentarily distracted from his reading.

“I apologise.”

Will exhaled, frowning at the page. He collected his thoughts and continued on. “I value my privacy. I don’t want to do public things with you and Abigail for a while. The three of us are targets for Freddie Lounds’ homepage and things for me are finally starting to die down—they don’t have toadies staking out my work anymore hoping to get a comment from me. I know I’m getting lucky that no one is questioning exactly who I am to you and I don’t want to push that luck.”

“Strangers when we meet,” Hannibal said, and Will could hear the smile in his tone. 

“And I want you to stop bringing me food. I can deal with you being here while I eat, but I really don’t want to eat anything you’ve handled.” Will’s stomach churned at his own bravery and at the way Hannibal had always watched him take the first bite of food.

Hannibal spoke in that gentle, but firm manner he used. “I’m worried for you.”

Will highly doubted that the worry came from a place of compassion, suspecting that it was really Hannibal’s own selfishness that wanted Will to improve so as to fit Hannibal’s aesthetic; and then, he was also aware of the underlying ambivalence in Hannibal’s words. Hannibal didn’t care. Will could starve to death and Hannibal would be with him the entire way, watching in sheer curiosity as Will wasted away to nothing.

“I think it’s going to take many years of serious, professional psychological help to fix what you’ve done,” Will admitted quietly, adding a note in the margin of the essay about the student’s choice of wording. 

“Nonsense.”

“I’m not saying it to be dramatic.”

Hannibal placed a kiss on Will’s temple. “Well, until then, I am going to do my job as your physician and make sure you’re eating properly while you’re under my watch.”

“Physician?”

“And partner and chef.” Hannibal held up another piece of fruit. “Open your mouth, Will. You are pickier than our Abigail was as a child.”

Will smiled and said with a mouth of apple slice, “She was a picky eater?”

“She had the most alarming palette—canned meats, pudding cups, Kraft Mac Dinners.”

“Hey, nothing wrong with those. I used to eat those when I was a teenager and in college. Had to teach myself to cook somehow.”

“Her parents used to cut up hotdog and add it to the mixture.”

Will felt a knowing smile grow on his face and then Hannibal tense against him as he realised that Will used to eat his macaroni and cheese the same way. Another soft pear slice found its way to his mouth and he hummed in thanks.

“I will feed you both better than that,” Hannibal murmured, sounding so determined that Will would have found it sweet, if there wasn’t a high likelihood that the food would involve human remains.

Will allowed Hannibal to turn his head towards him, closing his eyes as they kissed chastely, then returned to reading his students’ work for the night.

*****

Her father had an exceptionally light lunch prepared for them, reheated leftovers for the two of them to share by themselves in the Presidential Dining Room. 

“Your stable hand woke up this morning. There have been complications,” he told her as he set her plate before her.

“What kind of complications?”

“Traumatic brain injury.”

She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say—she didn’t know the man personally and it didn’t matter to her one way or another what happened to him. 

“Well, he’s not ‘my stable hand’. He’s Kennedy property if they want him.” A thought crossed and she asked suspiciously, “He’s not suing, is he?”

Her father sat in the seat adjacent to hers. “The estate lawyers have spoken with the representative his siblings have hired and are attempting to come to an agreement.”

“Then there is nothing for me to concern myself over.”

He gave a slight nod, accepting her decision. “I shall not bring it up again until it does.”

Abigail raised her wine glass to toast him. “Thank you.”

*****

While Will had happily, stupidly tied himself down to Hannibal by means of engagement, he was still very wary of his to-be family’s motives when interacting with him. Case in point, when Abigail waited until after the lecture hall emptied to approach him, he was very aware of the predatory way she looked at him. He was watching her from behind the frames of his glasses, observing without saying anything as she carefully sorted the papers on the room’s desk into neat piles, smiling up at him. He was not going to run back into their open arms, knowing that they would attempt to extract any and all emotions from him until they’d manipulated him back into that comfortable mindset he’d been in over the summer, where he’d be more likely to overlook the red flags he should be watching for.

Perhaps silence was the best course of action, he decided, giving her an acknowledging nod before returning to his task of putting his notes away. 

“I’m leaving for China in the morning,” she told him. “I’m doing a tour on behalf of the White House. I’ll mostly be in Hong Kong, but they’ll be taking me around to other places. I understand that Hong Kong’s First Lady will be my companion for a good portion of the journey, because I’ll be going by myself.” She paused, evidently waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t. “And I thought you might want to wish me well on my travels. And to have a safe flight.” 

Ah, there it was—attempting emotional blackmail for his lack of involvement in her life. He would not be guilted into giving her what she wanted—she knew why he’d been upset with her. 

When she continued, her tone was conversational, trying a different tactic in cracking his shell. “You know, instead of landing anywhere along the way, Air Force One will be refueled by a fuel jet mid-air, over the Pacific? Air Force One can be kept in continuous flight for six months without having to land for more food and water.” He could sense she had a quip about killing and eating the people onboard the plane to extend the flight, but she kept it to herself and merely smiled at him. 

“I was aware of that. History Channel special,” he said absently as he pulled on his coat.

She stood patiently, eagerly awaiting more, but when he didn’t say anymore, her face lost its hopefulness, taking on that empty disappointment he knew too well from growing up. She turned to leave. 

“Well, goodbye then. I hope you—“

He grabbed her by the arm and spun her back around, pulling her tightly to him.

“Don’t come here trying to manipulate me, Abigail,” he hissed sharply into her hair, but there was no malice in his voice. 

He could feel her heart fluttering in her chest and as she tucked her body closer to his, he could sense her content smile that she’d earned not only a reaction from him, but she’d also received the physical closeness Hannibal never demanded. Will pressed kisses against her head, rubbing her shoulder blades. She melted against him, exhaling softly, and he knew he’d successfully manipulated her into his good graces—if she was going to demand things, at the very least he’d be the one in control.

“I’ll miss you.” She played with his sweater’s collar and he felt her words in his lungs. “I’m going to be all by myself over there. I’ve never traveled on my own before.”

“You’ll be fine.” He smiled and imagined how she’d be surrounded by the best and the brightest the entire time. But as he knew from personal experience, merely being around people didn’t mean you couldn’t be lonely. The underlying problem for her was that her dad wasn’t going with her and “You don’t have to be scared. You’re going to be aboard the most well maintained plane in the world. And if something does go wrong, they’ll just put you in that little escape pod in the back and let you parachute to safety. Like that thing in ‘Air Force One’.”

“I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but he will not negotiate,” she whispered dramatically, tapping her finger against his chest to punctuate the quote.

“Mmm, no he won’t,” he agreed. A thought crossed his mind and he tensed slightly. “Are you going to call me?”

“I’d like to. If that’s okay.”

He nodded, feeling a sudden thrill; calling his own dad when he’d finally moved to DC had been too awkward for the both of them and he’d only ever talked with him on the phone about a dozen times in the five years he was away. 

“I’ll probably be at work when you call,” he reminded her, thinking of the time difference between them. 

“May I leave a voicemail?”

He nodded. “And I’ll do the same? I think that might work.”

Still holding one another, Will wondered when he’s learned that physical affection from another human being was something he desperately needed; with Abigail and Hannibal both the action to seek physical proximity to them came so naturally, it was as though that’s how his mind had always functioned. 

“Be nice to Georgia. Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you’re treating her,” he warned, the thought occurring to him at the realisation she’d have no one along with her to keep her personality in check.

She was quiet for a second, then said evenly, “If it’s important to you.”

“It is.” He held her a little closer to reinforce his love for her and reminded, “Her job is hard enough already and so is yours—there’s nothing to gain by adding complications.”

“You’re right,” she murmured. “I’ll be nice.”

She made a content noise and Will’s eyes caught the movement of Agent Matthews shifting his weight from left to right. Agent Brown stood a bit closer to them, his expression carefully masked disapproval. Will looked away. He wasn’t going to let anyone interrupt—

“First Lady? Mr Graham? Professor Foster is at the door,” Agent Matthews said quietly. 

Letting go of one another, Abigail said, “I’ll call you when I take off. And then when I land.”

“You’ll be fine.” 

“Thank you.”

He could feel the words ‘I love you’ on the tip of her lips but Molly had entered the room before she could say them, so she held back, simply holding his hand as she smiled at him.

“See you when I get back,” she said.

“Okay.” He gave her hand a final squeeze before letting her go. 

*****

Abigail was eating grapes by the handful; she was anxious and felt lightheaded as she paced her bedroom, counting down the minutes until she was expected to leave for the White House lawn, where a helicopter would be landing to pick her up and take her to the airport where the plane waiting to take her to Hong Kong. Her personal luggage had been packed by Mrs Madchen and Georgia, who’d both spent hours in her closet talking about the clothes she had while she sat on her bed and reread the last text messages she’d ever had with Marissa. Large trunks with dozens of dresses, one filled with her shoes, a large case filled with jewellery, and any tasteful accessories the official White House stylist had selected for her had already been packed days in advance and loaded onto the plane that morning.

The trip would be the first one she’d ever made solo, and it would be the longest time she’d ever gone without her father’s constant presence; abandoning the grapes, she went over to her bed, grabbed her pillow and held it to her face, screaming into it a few times as tears threatened to build. Then she went into the bathroom to wash her face, control her emotions, and brush her teeth one last time before leaving. Ensuring everything in her room was neat and orderly, she composed herself and smiled.

Her father was waiting in the Center Hallway, standing patiently between his room and the elevator alcove; she went to him and thankfully, he was willing to offer her his embrace. Holding her close, she could hear him breathing in the scent of her hair and she relaxed against him; she’d been concerned that because he had Will, he wouldn’t miss her as much as she’d miss him, but it seemed he was trying to get as much of her as he could before she left. She’d already smuggled one of his sweaters into her luggage after the Madchens had left, hiding it amongst the two cardigans that had been included. 

“You’ll be fine on your own,” he assured her, soothing all of her worries. 

She nodded against him. “You’re going to work on Will, right?”

“Of course.”

“Will you let me know everything that’s happening to you?” 

“I shall.”

She didn’t dare tell him how afraid she was that something would happen to him because she wasn’t there—saying it aloud felt as though it might jinx his safety, so she simply conveyed the depth of her emotions through the limits of the English language. 

“I love you so much.”

It didn’t matter to her that the words had become a reflex to him. “I love you, too, Abigail.”

*****

For the first time since the release of his name to the media, Brian had been able to return home to his apartment; he’s been slumming around his neighborhood, living quietly off the hush money the Vice President had given him. He’d become a familiar fixture at a nearby coffee shop and had purchased a ridiculous amount of books and magazines at the ugly little bookstore around the corner. Tonight he’d dedicated himself to a beer and watching the TV, knowing Abigail was headed off to the other side of the globe.

He’d heard rumours that Purnell was winding down with her investigation and that things didn’t look good for him. He had no idea what he was going to do if he was fired. Fired for shooting the President’s assistant and best friend, as far as the public was concerned, fired for shooting the President’s boyfriend, as far as everyone else was concerned. Either way, he was disgraced and going to be the laughing stock of of the security world and government employment for years to come.

But he smiled as he watched Abigail waving to the cameras as she boarded the Nighthawk. Taking his phone out, he texted her. 

<< _Have fun in China!_ >>

He sighed and sank back into his arm chair.

*****

The fanfare Abigail received upon arriving to Hong Kong was nothing short of spectacular; a large performance of traditionally dressed women who presented her multiple bouquets that were handed off to one of the secondary assistants that made up her entourage. From there, she was greeted by the First Lady of the People’s Republic of China, Peng Liyuan; Madam Peng had been a First Lady almost as long as Abigail had, so they shared a few polite comments about the other accepting their office so gracefully, before allowing the cameras to take photos.  

In a photographed ceremony, she and the First Lady exchanged gifts—she receiving Jian tea ware, and giving a Lucy Lewis pot in return—and then after the pottery was passed off to their staff, they walked out to the main garden to have more photos taken of them and continue their simple conversation about the hopes for their countries’ growing relationship with one another.

By the time evening arrived, Abigail was exhausted and starving; she’d been served conservatively small portions during the extravagant dinner and performance, and while she’d enjoyed all of it, she’d burned more calories than her food had allowed for. Fortunately back at the hotel, Georgia came to her rescue, holding a cooler bag with the White House seal on the side. 

“I have some snacks.”

“I owe you,” Abigail told her quite seriously.

As Georgia waved people out of the bedroom and back into the suite, Abigail sat down at the small table beside the windows that overlooked Hong Kong; she’d already changed into something casual, Secret Service sweatpants and t-shirt Brian Zeller had given her between election and inauguration. 

The door shut behind her, Georgia made her way over to Abigail. “Your dad sent along some supplies. Parents always worry about us not getting fed enough, huh?”

She imagined Georgia was accustomed to getting snacks of goldfish crackers, not hummus with flecks of grated truffle and vegetables packed specifically to make the long journey to China. 

“It’s true.” Abigail politely offered the food she was eating. “Would you like some?”

“Sure.” Georgia took one of the carrot sticks. “So, you doing okay without your dad? I could never travel without my mom or dad.”

“I’m doing fine.” Abigail shrugged and admitted. “It’s a little strange, but in a good way.” “I’ve actually never done anything without him before. We’ve never been apart for more than a day.” 

“Really?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It’s only ever been us, so this is probably as weird for him as it is for me. We like to keep an eye on one another.”

Georgia smiled, opening another container to show a tzatziki sauce which she set down next to “I think it’s wonderful the two of you are so close. So many kids today don’t get along with their parents. Not like us.”

“We’re lucky.” Ugh, what did one say for small talk? “Your father is an architect?”

“Yeah. He designs houses, specifically.” Georgia’s phone buzzed. “Oh, it’s my mom.”

Abigail nodded her head and took a drink of water so she didn’t have to say anything, thereby ending their conversation as Georgia hurried off to see what was needed of her. Alone in the room, Abigail rubbed her temples and located the suitcase that contained one of her father’s sweaters. She’d folded it and stuffed it away, and now she could have it all to herself.It was a light camel colour and cashmere; when she brought it up to her nose, she could smell the moisturiser he used on his face and she smiled, cuddling into it momentarily before hiding it under the pillows on the bed. Pulling out her own phone, she dialed Will’s number; it went straight to voicemail and she began to speak. 

“Hi, Dad. I landed in Hong Kong safe and sound. It's so smoggy here.” And that was true—she’d nearly recoiled as she’d gotten off the plane, wishing that she could wear a protective surgical mask like the average person of Hong Kong did. “It’s pretty late right now—I’ve already gotten ready for bed. I was given a tea set; I’ll see if Daddy wants to keep it or if we can just give it to you right away.” She picked at a piece of lint on her pant leg. “How are classes? I bet you miss seeing my familiar face, don’t you? I miss class. I really enjoy it, even if I don’t get to attend every single one. And I spent half of my plane ride over working on that paper Professor Foster assigned. I should have it mailed in tomorrow.” She fought a yawn. “Well, I’ll talk with you again tomorrow and I look forward to hearing your message. I love you.” She could hear a slight static and worried that Will hadn’t heard her, she repeated herself. “In case my last words didn’t go through because of bad reception, I said I love you. And in case you did hear it, I love you again.”

She ended the call and took the opportunity to continue eating the food and flooding her father’s phone with text messages. He finally replied, stating that he’d been running on the treadmill, and thanked her for responding to his earlier messages. She felt horrible that she’d not written back to them earlier, but she’d not been allowed to handle her phone while attending to her diplomatic duties; it ate at her not to have constant contact with him. 

She was expected to participate in a Tai Chi exercise with Madam Peng in the morning, and she was tired and wanted to sleep, but she’d much rather talk to him. Careful not to make herself sound insecure without him, she texted small memories of poetry he’d recited to her, smiling as she lie down on the bed; the sweater cuddled in her arms while she texted him back and forth, she considered 

He told her that he’d spent another evening with Will; she asked if Will had decided to wear the ring yet and her father told her that disappointingly, he’d not. She knew that if he didn’t start wearing it by the time she returned from Hong Kong, she’d make that her goal during her time spent at his house for Thanksgiving.  

Finally, her father agreed it was time for her to go to sleep and she flooded him with apologies for having to leave and promises to talk to him the moment she woke up. She set her phone away to charge and went back out to the suite to announce to everyone that she was retiring for the night and that everyone should as well. When she crawled back into bed, she slipped on the sweater she’d brought along and fell asleep. 

*****

“You need to relax a bit. Right in here.” Matthew adjusted Will’s posture as he aimed the gun and then stood back, approving smile on his face. “Much better, Mr Graham. Have you an expert marksman in no time at all.”

“Yeah, right,” Will mumbled.

He unloaded the clip in the bull’s eye target sheet he was practicing with and as Matthew reeled it in, Will felt his phone buzz to indicate a new voicemail. Setting the gun down on the ledge provided for storage, he flipped the safety and then pulled off his protective headphones. 

“Abigail called,” he murmured, belatedly remembering that Matthew didn’t particularly want to hear about their family reuniting. 

He listened to her message, picking up on her insecurity that she was without Hannibal for such an extended period of time; he knew from his evenings with Hannibal that the man was restless from Abigail’s absence. 

“I think I’m going to call it a day, Matthew,” Will said.

Matthew was in the middle of writing down Will’s successful shot tally in a little Mead notebook he carried around. “You sure, Mr Graham?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Matthew took the gun and ammunition with him to the Secret Service’s secured storage manager, leaving Will by himself. Knowing how late it was in Hong Kong, Will dialed Abigail’s number and put it directly to voicemail. Drily, he wondered how much this international call would cost on his phone bill at the end of the month. 

“Hi…” He couldn’t figure out how he should address her. An affectionate pet name? Something to try out on her and hope that she liked? With his hesitation, it felt too forced to say anything other than, “Abigail.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry the air isn’t so good—make sure you’re not breathing too much of it in. You know, stay inside. I’m sure that one of your staff has a portable air purifier for your hotel room. Make sure you’re drinking plenty of water.” He grimaced as he played back in his mind what he’d just said—he sounded like a nagging parent, not someone who was trying to support and foster independence within a young woman.“I hope you’re having fun. Definitely more fun than coming to class, right? I’ve saved the notes from the lectures you’re missing. I’ll make copies in the teacher’s lounge and then send them over to your office. Or just give them to your dad when I see him next.” Will huffed slightly, trying to think of something else to say. “I’m going out fishing this weekend I think. Actually, if the weather is good and Secret Service is okay, I could take the two of us out to my favorite fishing spot out here I the woods. I still have all your gear.” Will felt his stomach sink at the memory of their time fishing in August and that she’d taken him to the place where Hannibal had executed someone. “Or whatever you want. Plenty of time to tie flies.” He cleared his throat. “Okay, well, I’ll talk to you later. I love you. And I love you again.”

He ended the call and felt the odd mixture of satisfaction and triumph that he’d managed a somewhat successful phone call to the young woman. Placing his phone back in his pocket, he noticed Matthew had returned.

“Let’s go get something to eat,” his agent suggested.

Will figured he could possibly force something down. “Yeah, okay.”

*****///*****

Aunt Bee's outfit for the memorial:

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Yellow journalism, also known as yellow press, is a type of journalism that presents little or no legitimate well-researched news and instead uses eye-catching headlines to sell more newspapers. Techniques include exaggerations of news events, scandal-mongering, or sensationalism. Today the term is also used to decry any journalism that treats news in an unprofessional or unethical fashion. 
> 
> +The line about the New York Times in regards to Bashir is a direct quote. 
> 
> +Montblanc pens are considered to be some of the finest on the market. They even make a ‘John F. Kennedy Special Edition’!
> 
> +Bedelia’s explanation for JFK’s assassination is mentioned in the film ’13 Sins’, available on Netflix. It’s my favourite Kennedy assassination theory ;)
> 
> +Hannibal’s line “What we have is more sacred than a vow or a ring” is from 50 Cent’s song, “A Baltimore Love Thing” which is about drug addiction; you can decide if Hannibal was actually quoting 50 Cent or not.
> 
> +“I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but he will not negotiate,” is from the movie Air Force One. 
> 
> +Nora Kara Kennedy was born November 19, 2013 to Patrick and Amy Kennedy.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between Nov 24 through Nov 27, 2013

Hannibal had been relishing the distance between himself and Abigail, planning for when they were reunited; he would lavish affection on her, knowing that Will would approve of it, and in return, she would be pliable, more susceptible to his suggestions that she put aside the notion of university and fall back to the original plan he had made for her. Sitting at his desk in the Oval Office, he felt very confident of his plans as he reviewed the latest security briefing for the Sochi Winter Olympics. Winston was sitting beside him, head resting on Hannibal’s knee as he looked up at him, no doubt hopeful to be taken on a walk outside. Alas for Winston, Jack had just entered the office and was holding up the schedule leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday break. 

“Hannibal, we need to talk about the pardoning of the turkey.”

The last thing Hannibal wanted to do in the lead up to Thanksgiving was stand around the Rose Garden like a fool with a farmed turkey so inbred it could hardly walk without worry it would snap its leg bones. 

“I will be ending that tradition.”

“Hannibal…” Jack looked ready to beg him not to make changes to plans he’d already made. 

“It is an empty gesture. Instead, I shall be passing a bill that reforms the way the Bureau of Land Management handles the care of the American Mustangs living in the Nevada desert.” 

Jack sat down in the chair to Hannibal’s left, looking disgruntled by the matter, but willing to humour him. “Fine, tell me about the horses.”

Hannibal found the small speech he’d prepared in lieu of the asinine tradition and handed over to Jack. “Public Law 92-195 states that the wild horses and burros living in the United States are to be provided protection and management. I do not find the current method of their care to be satisfactory.” “These reports discuss how there is an effective form of equine birth control that is both cost efficient to the mustang programme and ideal for the health of the herds.”

“Birth control.” Jack didn’t look up from the speech. “Aren’t you supposed to be against that as a Catholic?”

Hannibal bristled slightly; there were times he forgot that religion was part of his persona and yes, there were times that he occasionally acted enough out of character that others tried to confront him on it, but this was one of the rare moments he’d forgotten about it being a possibility. 

“I am against animals suffering, Jack. These horses are rounded up and it is no secret that the BLM has turned a blind eye as to whom the horses are sold to. American horses should not be taken to slaughterhouses to be turned into dog food.” Hannibal took the moment to gently scratch behind Winston’s ears. “This will manage the herds and reduce the necessary yearly sale of the animals. With the way the economy is struggling from the prior administration, it will be too costly for anyone interested in adopting, thus allowing the BLM to continue their practice of selling to people interested in making a profit off those animals. We shall start a new tradition in the White House—a day we can make a difference in the lives of those who cannot help themselves. The meek, all of god’s creatures great and small.”

Jack looked as though he wanted to argue about how people wanted to see him make an idiot of himself with the turkeys that had already been raised for the event, but at the last minute decided it wasn’t a battle worth fighting. “Fine. I’ll get something set up.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Hannibal said as Jack stood.

“Just tell me this stuff at least a month in advance—you’ve got to stop pulling these last minute changes.” Most of the other man’s irritation seemed to have abated. 

“I shall remember that.”

As Jack left, Winston snuffled against Hannibal’s wrist, his tail thumping against the ground. 

“I think a walk would do the two of us good, don’t you, Winston?” Hannibal offered to the faithful dog.

*****

Will pulled the beer out of his desk; it would be warm, but he didn’t really care. The day was grinding on and while he knew it was crossing a serious line to drink on the job, he was going to do it anyway. He glanced up at Matthew and realised that his hawk-like eyes were trained on him and he offered up a bottle. “Uh, want one?”

“I’m on duty.”

“Right.” 

The agent’s odd smile returned as he took a step forward. “I wasn’t saying no.”

Will felt a brief sense of relief that Matthew wasn’t going to rat him out on the daily briefing report, not that he felt any real camaraderie with his agent. If he could find someone who would look at him without any fucking _need_ , he would be happy. 

There was a knock on the office door and with a hand on his unsnapped holster, Matthew went over to open it. Will quickly put his beer back in the desk drawer and the door opened to reveal Molly.

She held up a stack of forms. “Oh, Will. I have those papers we needed for the candidacy programme.”

He grimaced, remembering how he’d offered at the beginning of the semester (when he’d been high on the love that had built up over the summer) and now wished he had a way of backing out. “I’ll fill them out tonight.” 

Molly nodded and handed them over to him, giving a quiet ‘hello’ to Matthew who had returned to his chair in the corner. 

*****

Beverly had packed most of her locker’s contents into a duffle bag that usually carried her clothes; her upcoming week and a day off for Hanukkah were greatly looked forward to. Her entire family still lived in the greater DC area, which meant holidays at her parents’ house were very cramped, but very happy. She wasn’t the only Jewish agent preparing for holiday departure and she exchanged knowing looks and a few well wishes with everyone else packing and headed off for their holiday break.

It was all tinged with a hint of sadness that Brian wasn’t there to pack with her; they’d often compare expectations for how their families were going to celebrate, feign dread at having to spend time with them. She wished she could tell him about the little clay dreidels she’d ordered for her nieces and nephews as presents, listen to him complain about the stale matzo his mom would insist on serving.

In the Secret Service’s office to sign out on her dailies, she had a few quick conversations with a few agents trading shifts in for the night. Beverly put her signature in all the right places, checked in her on-duty weapon with her off-duty weapon, and grabbed all the necessary papers she needed to review before returning to work next month.

“Later, donkeys. See you after Hanukkah,” she said as she walked through the evening commotion in the office. 

Someone threw a stress ball at her and she gave a pageant wave as she swept out of the office. Taking the basement route out of the White House, she was very surprised when she encountered Jimmy and the President walking from the Situation Room back upstairs. She exchanged a quick salute with Jimmy and then an acknowledging ‘good evening’ to the President. 

“Headed home for the holidays, Agent Katz?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir.”

He gave a polite smile to her. “I wish you and your family a beautiful and joyous Hanukkah.” 

“Thank you, President Lecter. Same to you,” she said appreciatively. 

“Thank you, Agent Katz.”

*****

After a long day of lectures and no time to go to the gun range, Will was hoping for a few beers and maybe getting drunk enough to find some form of appetite, when Matthew came into the kitchen as Will was considering if he wanted to drink from a glass or straight from the bottle tonight.

“Mr Graham? Someone’s here to see you. A Mr Franklyn Froideveaux.”

At this, Will stopped his task and nodded his permission for Froideveaux to be allowed onto the property and up to the house. While Will found the other man to be unappealing in his desperation, he was also one of the few people he’d encountered in the last ten years that didn’t have an ulterior motive to become friends with Will. He was simply interested in collecting friends who were projections of how he wished to be; it wasn’t the type of behaviour Will wanted to encourage, but then, he’d been around far worse.

Will greeted him at the door, a smile on his lips that he hoped didn’t look forced. “Franklyn.”

“Hey, Will.” He held up two pizza boxes as though they were an offering, a very hopeful look on his face. “Hope you’re hungry.”

Will nodded slightly, standing aside for him to enter. “That’s very nice of you.” 

“I ordered vegetarian and a cheese.”

Will’s smile softened. “Thanks.”

Franklyn looked very pleased with himself, walking past Will and Matthew for the kitchen. He also had a white plastic grocery bag around his left wrist. “Called Abigail’s office to find out what kind you liked.”

Will felt a sudden nauseous—of course she’d recommend something without meat, wanting to make sure he ate. “Oh.”

Franklyn began to set the food out on the kitchen counter, smiling. “She’s great, isn’t she? Told me what pizza shop you like best, what you’d want for dessert—chocolate cake—and she offered to pay, but I told her that she didn’t need to, friends can treat one another to dinner, right?”

“She’s trying to fatten me up.” Will stared at the packaged cake from a bakery close to the pizzeria he’d favoured. 

“You do look skinny,” Franklyn observed, then quickly added, “You know, in a sick way. Like you’re getting better from the flu. Not in a ‘starving yourself’ sort of way.”

“I have been starving myself,” Will said bluntly.

“But that’s from stress, right?”

Will knew he’d gain nothing more than quick satisfaction by making the other man uncomfortable, so he followed along with the misunderstanding. “Right.”

“Because you were shot. It’s like being sick from the flu,” Franklyn reaffirmed.

Will swallowed down any further words and nodded. 

Franklyn appeared to be reassured that Will wasn’t suffering and gave him another smile. “Sorry I didn’t bring anything to drink. Thought you would have something to drink around here.”

“I have a pack of Sam Adams in the fridge,” Will offered.

“Okay—I can have a half of one. Responsible driving.”

“Right.” Will hesitated before opening the cabinet. “Paper plates okay?”

“It’s fine.”

Will grabbed paper plates and paper towels, bringing them over to the table so that he and Franklyn would sit opposite of one another. As his agent came back around to make sure everything in the kitchen was okay, Will thought it might be useful to have him as a buffer in the event Franklyn’s company became overwhelming. 

“Matthew—do you want some?” Will offered.

Matthew walked in and all smiles, Franklyn offered out a hand to him to introduce himself.

“Hi, I’m Franklyn Froideveaux. Governor Tobias Budge’s personal assistant. Nice to meet you.”

Matthew smiled, too, shaking Franklyn’s hand. “Agent Matthew Brown, nice to meet you, too.”

“So you’re his agent? To protect him from whoever killed Clarice Starling?” Franklyn asked as he sat down and began to take a few slices of the veggie pizza. 

“Yep.”

“Wow. That’s so scary, Will. Aren’t you scared?”

Will sat down, too and opened a beer for himself before committing to any of the pizza. “Not really. Clarice Starling’s death was about her, not me. I don’t have anything to fear. I really don’t even need an agent, but the President insists.”

“That’s so nice of him. He’s always looking out for you, isn’t he?”

“He certainly does,” Will agreed in a noncommittal way, then nodded to Matthew. “Take another slice.”

The agent smiled and did as he was told. “Thank you, Mr Graham.” 

“Do you want to sit with us?” Franklyn asked.

Matthew looked at him apprehensively and Will gave a small nod of permission; Matthew took a seat between the two men. “Sure.”

Franklyn looked at the agent curiously. “So have there been any threats against Will? You know, the person who killed Clarice Starling? Are they looking to get Will next?”

“I really can’t say,” Matthew said in patient tone.

“Oh! Right—classified.” Franklyn nodded. 

“Classified,” Matthew agreed before taking a bite of pizza. 

Will took another drink from his bottle and then hesitantly took a slice of cheese pizza. For a moment, he dwelt on memories of Abigail and Hannibal eating theirs with forks and knives, and as though to defy them, he took a large bite and let the grease, cheese, and spices overwhelm him. Matthew gave him a small smile, no doubt happy to see him eat as well, and Will looked away.

*****

Abigail’s return to America was noted briefly by the news networks, but for the most part ignored, which was fine by her. The American people didn’t care about China except when there were fears of pandemics, so it meant she wasn’t taking up unnecessary time on the news, which was only just beginning to move on from her botched interview. She landed on the front lawn via NightHawk, politely thanking the Marines standing watch as they returned her father’s salute. He’d come out to greet her and welcome her home, giving her a hug for the cameras and handing her Winston’s leash; together the three of them walked back to the White House and after she finished saying hello to everyone on the route back to the Oval Office, she and her father barricaded themselves inside the ivory room to regroup. 

“I have a gift for you,” she told him.

He raised an eyebrow and she pulled out a newspaper article she’d clipped from one of the local papers her hotel had had. He took at it, eyes locking onto the image of rubble and people sobbing around it. 

“There was a church being built in one of the southern provinces. During the last week of construction, the local priest came out to evaluate and commit additional money to it. The roof collapsed and killed fifteen inside, including the priest and the nuns that came with him.”

“How wonderful.” His smile was light and warm. It was better than anything else she could have brought him from her trip. “Thank you, Abigail.”

*****

Will’s class on Maximum Likelihood was going to delve into the topic of celebrities who’d held office of some sort or another in the US. While it was a series of lectures that the students really seemed to enjoy, he found it very draining as everyone in the room seemed so caught up on the novelty of ‘knowing’ who a person was before they’d reached office. Ah, politicians and celebrityhood. Now that was a pairing that went hand in hand. ‘Celebrity’ could be defined as the person everyone in town knew because they’d been the high school’s star quarterback. Or perhaps they were someone who’d pulled people to safety in an accident. Or just the person everyone recognised because they’d achieved some sort of notoriety and now they’d figured out how to cash in on it. 

But the definition everyone liked the most was ‘actor-turned-politician’. The late Ronald Reagan was arguably the most successful, having become President in 1980 in a landslide victory over Jimmy Carter; after graduating from Eureka College in Illinois in 1932, he’d moved to Iowa where he’d started his career in media as a radio announcer. In 1937 while traveling to California with the Chicago Cubs as their radio announcer for WHO radio in Des Moines, he took a screen test that gained him a seven-year studio contract with Warner Brothers. By 1939 he’s already appeared in 19 films, in which time he’d acquired his lifelong nickname of ‘the Gipper’ after a character he’d played. Perhaps his rising stardom would have continued if he’d not been called to active duty for World War II; after the war, he resumed service in the Board of Directors for the Screen Actors Guild and continued with film, television, and working for General Electric as the host of General Electric Theater until the 1960s. In 1967 he was elected as governor of California, serving until 1975; then in 1976 he had failed presidential campaign, though when he ran again in 1980, he won the White House for the Republicans again, holding onto a second term until 1989. In fact, he’d been so successful as a politician, most people in the younger generations of America had no idea that he’d been an actor in the first place. 

Clint Eastwood had become a nonpartisan mayor for the California beach community of Carmel-by-the-Sea from 1986 to 1988; an actor of the spaghetti westerns so popular in the 1960s and later the iconic ‘Dirty Harry’ of the 1970s and ‘80s, Eastwood’s fame had been a major deciding factor for his time in office, considering the community was wealthy and more artistically inclined than the average township. He’d always been very vocal about his political beliefs and they often mirrored the progressive trends of California politics, though he was far more conservative in areas that other Californians were not. Granted, his role in politics was considerably smaller, but it had been successful and there had been much desire to see him make a bid for president. 

Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura, former professional wrestler, naval veteran, and actor had first entered politics a few years after his roles in the films Predator and The Running Man, acting as mayor for Brooklyn Park, Minnesota from 1991 to 1995. Much to everyone’s surprise, when he entered the gubernatorial race in 1998 for the Reform Party, he narrowly beat both the Democratic and Republican candidates, becoming elected as 38th Governor of Minnesota from 1999 to 2003. Will used his campaign as an especially important one, as it had been low-budget and grassroots efforts that were able to rely on Ventura’s name being fairly household at that point and thusly not requiring the kind of marketing that an average citizen running for office would require. He’d later gained a nickname of Jesse ‘The Governing Body’ Ventura, and while he’d earned a reputation amongst the political world, it wasn’t exactly a good one. 

Arnold Schwarzanegger was the final politician he used for an example in the class, as the man had managed to achieve almost a 50/50 balance for being known as both. Famous for his body building and his roles in major film franchises, Schwarzenegger would have been a top contender for becoming president due to popularity alone if he’d been born an American citizen. Alas for the Republican party, he would never have the privilege. Married to Maria Shriver, he’d found himself surrounded by politicos and it wasn’t a far leap to see that time with Kennedys had rubbed off on him enough to desire becoming a public servant. He’d entered the 2003 California recall election for Governor of California and it had immediately gained national and international attention; Schwarzenegger was a household name and while no one really knew his political beliefs, he immediately had a loyal following. Despite only participating in one debate and having far more conservative views than the traditionally blue state, Schwarzenegger won 48.6% of the vote as Governor Gray Davis’ successor. Just as Hannibal had decided to do something else with his salary as President, Schwarzenegger had not accepted his governor’s salary based on his own personal wealth from his acting career. 

Will didn’t have any decent photos of Schwarzenegger on file and quickly brought up google for their image search. As he preferred formal election photos, he had to scroll down the page past movie promotional posters and paparazzi photos to find anything legitimate that the republican party had put out to represent their former candidate. 

One photo of Schwarzenegger caught his eye: an informal photo and he had his arm draped over the shoulder of a very familiar person. It was a slightly younger Abigail, wearing her graduation gown and smiling broadly at the camera. Sometimes Will forgot the exact circle of people that Abigail ran with an entirely different crowd then most politicians could ever dream of navigating. 

He glanced down at the image, momentarily caught off guard and clicked on it so that he could see it in a larger format; the photo’s link back was to the former governor’s Facebook page and even though Facebook was heavily discouraged for faculty use, this was ‘research’ purposes. 

The caption beneath the photo said, _“Congratulations, Crew! Many years of luck and hard work ahead for you!”_

It took Will a moment to remember that ‘Crew’ was Abigail’s nickname amongst her family after her success on the Sidwell Friends crew team. He did a quick mental calculation—if Abigail had graduated in June of 2011, it meant that in this photo, Schwarzenegger was already publicly separated from Shriver. A small pain coiled in the pit of his stomach; while it would fit the former governor’s personality to show up to celebrate a family member’s milestone, it was also unlike him to pass up an opportunity to use the matter to help repair his image to the public eye. He still had a reputation almost too big to sink, but it wouldn’t hurt to put himself closer to the Lecters; if Will had been his PR manager, he would have made the same assessment.  

He considered saving the photo for a moment, but then thought better of it; if he wanted photos of Abigail, he could just ask Hannibal for them. Besides, he didn’t need a picture of ‘the Governator’ and Abigail. He clicked out of the Facebook page and with a few different keywords, found an official gubernatorial photo that worked much better. 

*****///*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +The Presidential Pardoning of the Turkey is either a ceremony you love or hate. What it is is a live turkey given to the White House is then ‘pardoned’ from becoming the Thanksgiving turkey and is sent to live at Mt Peiler. Many presidents have expressed their dislike of the tradition and in the recent years it has also gained some controversy into whether or not it’s ethical, considering the turkey that has been bred for the role isn’t designed to live very long. 
> 
> +Public Law 92-195 is known as the Wild and Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act of 1971. 
> 
> +In the books, Hannibal states that one of his hobbies is collecting articles on accidents in churches. 
> 
> +”Maximum Likelihood” is an actual political science class at GWU, though not taught by the fictional Will Graham. 
> 
> +Ronald Reagan has a very fascinating history, whether you like him as a politician or not. 
> 
> +The 2003 California recall election for Governor was considered a very wild time in terms of California elections. There was record number of people running for office and many of them were people who had no political experience at all, much like Governor Schwarzenegger. His was one of the first politicians to begin implementing green technology, despite the ridicule from his own party. 
> 
> +Arnold Schwarzenegger was married to Maria Schriver in 1986, though they separated in May 2011  
> He was governor of California from Nov 17, 2003 (in a special recall election) to Jan 3, 2011  
> During his term was referred to as ‘The Governator’, a portmanteau of ‘Governor’ and his most famous acting role ‘Terminator’.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place on November 28th, 2013

Abigail had a big cooler box brought over to Will’s while she was working with her staffers at the women’s shelter they were serving the early dinner from. The kitchens had prepared three different sets of ingredients for potential main courses and she was absolutely thrilled that _this was actually happening_! It meant that the entire time she handed people their plates and forks and knives wrapped in a paper napkin she was smiling, full of a genuine enthusiasm the stemmed from the thought of Will and not from generosity.

And when she was finally smuggled out of the White House with Will’s evening detail, a duffle bag of her clothing and fly tying kit at her feet, she was so excited her hands were shaking. Perhaps if anyone was spying on the Wolf Trap house, they might have noticed that there were a few more agents than usual on the property, but the news stations had far more interesting stories to cover. Abigail snuck into the back of Will’s kitchen, where she was greeted by both the man himself and Winston, who’d been brought over the evening before. 

“I missed you,” she told him as he wrapped his arms around her.

“I missed you, too.” 

After a moment, Winston tried to push between them, seeking attention and they let one another go. 

“Hey, Winston,” she said, petting him. 

“He’s probably waiting for Hannibal to show up. I took him out for a long walk this afternoon,” Will told her.

“Good. So, I thought a turkey was not really your style,” she paused, waiting for him to agree and when he nodded, she smiled and continued. “So I had the kitchens decide on a few different themes.”

“Where do they think you are?” He sounded hesitant.

“Oh, I’ve told everyone that I’m having dinner at a charity worker’s home with their family. It’s all very secret, which means everyone will know by tomorrow afternoon.”

He raised an eyebrow apprehensively. “And when you don’t come home tonight?”

“Oh, no one will know. Day shift will all think I came home after they left, and night shift employees will think I came home before them. I really don’t see anyone except for ushers outside of the Secret Service, and all of them were given the next few days off. A few of the cleaning staff will go around the Residence, but they’re only allowed up while we’re out, so none of them will know I’m not actually on the property.”

He nodded. “You two thought of everything.”

“Naturally. So, have you looked through the cooler yet?” She glanced at the blue and white 40 gallon chest by the sink.

“No.”

“Great. I’ll show you what I had the chefs pick.” She opened the lid. “Marlin.” She handed him a large wrapped paper package. “Or you can have cornish game hens…” She pulled out the next bag. “Or shrimp.” Leaning back on her heels, she looked up at him. “I thought if you wanted to, we could cook your own traditional Thanksgiving food…?”

“We usually ate at IHOP on Thanksgiving,” Will admitted, looking awkward.

“Oh, I—“

“It’s all right. My dad wasn’t big on cooking.” He held up the wrapped marlin. “Let’s see. Why don’t we grill this?”

She nodded and began to dig through the cooler for the rest of the ingredients labeled to go with the fish. “These are all the spices and rubs we should use for it.” She handed him little containers and then found the precooked side dishes that simply needed to be reheated. 

“Okay. What’s all this?” He pointed to the paper bag sitting by the fridge that Winston was smelling.

“I wanted to make table decorations.” She took the bag and showed Will all of the foliage, assorted florals inside, and various arrangement necessities. “I’ll decorate the table and you can cook.”

Thankfully, Will belonged to a lineage that knew how to handle any variety of sea food, so she was able to leave him to his own devices while she set about the making the kitchen table more presentable. Winston had lie down on mat in front of the sink and watched them as they managed the tasks they’d assigned themselves. 

As Abigail was carefully positioning two of the goat horns she’d brought from her father’s personal collection of decór, Will suggested, “If you want some music, I have some CDs in the living room you can put on.”

“I think this is nice.”

He smiled at her. “Me, too.”

“Do you have candles?” she asked; she’d packed about a dozen of her own, but she was curious what he had. 

“Uh, a few in that drawer over there.” He indicated to the cabinets by the refrigerator. 

She rummaged around in the drawer and found more, some half used, varying sizes and colours. Gathering them up, she brought them over to the table and arranged them around the flowers and leaves spilling out of the goat horns; she pulled out the lighter she’d brought along and lit the candles. Satisfied with how everything looked, she excused herself for a moment and went into the livingroom, where she politely requested that the agents inside please leave the interior of the house to give she and Will privacy. They grudgingly accepted, no doubt dreading the cold outside, but did as she asked. As they left, she pulled out her phone and texted her father with a quick message that everything was going smoothly and she’d talk to him later that night. He didn’t reply, no doubt busy with the Thanksgiving dinner at Hyannis Port. Returning to the kitchen, she watched silently as Will plated their food and when he looked up to her, she smiled warmly, wanting to reassure him that she was happy to be there. She gestured to his table and he carried both plates over.

“This looks nice.” He gave a crooked smile. “Nothing like your dad’s table arrangements.”

She shook her head, looking rather pleased with the cornucopias. “Nope. This is my design.”

Will showed her the plates of food he’d brought out. “Well, this is my design.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You need to work on your understanding of what ‘design’ means.”

“It doesn’t look that bad,” he said, setting the plates at their places at the table.

She begged to differ.

“Lots of candles,” he commented. “Very ambient.”

She nodded, watching him. “When I was in fifth grade, I got really into our history class’ field trip out to the pilgrim recreation villages, where they showed us the process of candle making and what it would be like to live without electricity, and for two months I made Daddy buy me candle making supplies and then I wouldn’t allow us to use the lights in the house so I could see what it would be like to live without them.” She shrugged. “We could only light rooms with the candles.”

He raised an eyebrow as he placed his napkin in his lap, and there was a hint of a disbelieving smile on his face. “You made your own candles?”

“They turned out…okay.”

“And he tolerated this?”

She laughed, her blush deepening. “You’d be surprised what he’s willing to humour. He liked my passion, though I wish he’d stopped me because the memory is just so embarrassing.” She lowered her eyes to her plate and muttered, “I was _so_ lame.”

Will cheerfully cut into his marlin. “How many candles did you make?”

“Dozens. And Daddy helped make them, too.”

He nodded, taking another bite of the fish. “And his turned out perfect.”

“Naturally.” She shrugged. “Mine were pretty good at the end because of so much practice.”

“Well, in the event of a power outage, you and your dad will be well equipped,” he deadpanned. 

“The nation can rest easy,” she agreed, finally trying the marlin.

“Good?” Will asked, looking apprehensively.

“Great. Perfectly cooked.” She was telling the truth; presentation was a bit sloppy and merely functional, but the food was delicious.

He studied her for a moment, but seemed to believe her. She poured water into her glass from the pitcher on the table and passed it over to him; while she’d normally want to serve a sparkling wine with the menu for the night, but she knew if Will had a problem with alcohol, perhaps it was best not to offer any, so she’d not brought a bottle along.

*****

Will studied her face for a moment, trying to find any hint of a lie, but then glanced away, realising he didn’t really want to know. Instead, he poured himself a glass of water. As he’d cooked the marlin, he’d debated offering her a beer, but decided against it as a beer with Thanksgiving dinner sounded a little gauche. There was no doubt Hannibal would have frowned at such a suggestion and he wasn’t sure the wine in the fridge the Lecters had left was good with fish. Besides, he’d drank from that bottle and there was still its cork floating inside, only rescued by an old wine stopper he’d found in his mismatched utensil drawer. 

While it wasn’t exactly a good topic to bring up at Thanksgiving dinner—as he was well aware of where he’d steer the conversation—he decided with Abigail in a fairly unsuspecting mood and eager to please, he could bring up something that had been nagging at the back of his mind.

“So…” He tried to sound casual. “You’re not a matriculated student GWU. Just auditing my courses.”

She nodded, still smiling. “Right.”

“Going to pick a major? You could enroll if you wanted to. God knows they’d love to say that they had you as a student.”

She shook her head. “I’m just coming to see you. Not for spying, but because I miss you.” 

“Doesn’t your dad want you to enroll? So that you’re getting recognition for the time you’re putting into this? I’ve read your last paper—it was very well thought out, though it needed a little work. I’m sure Hannibal would be thrilled to know you were earning a degree in the family business.” 

“Will.” She picked at her marlin with her fork. “You don’t really think that, do you? I was never going to be allowed to go to college or university; we’ve planned all along that I’d be too busy with my role as First Lady to be able to attend, and then once his eight years were over, I would start a foundation to support the underprivileged and we’d tell everyone that ‘regrettably, the foundation leaves me no time to get a secondary education’.” She gave a halfhearted smile, still looking at her plate. “He decided years ago that I'm going to be dedicated to philanthropy and leisure.”

Will shook his head. “He doesn't really want that.”

“No, see, if I do that, then he and I can always be together. We don’t have to be apart,” she explained.

Will shook his head again, because that wasn’t what he saw at all. “No, he’d get so bored so fast. His ego won’t allow him to have a smart daughter that doesn’t do anything. He’ll see you like a peach left to rot rather than be eaten.”

She gave him a look that looked very much like his own when he had something sarcastic to say. “Well, that’s an interesting analogy.”

He took it as an opportunity to ignore her comment. “All that potential wasted.”

She picked at her food and then asked curiously, “Does that mean I should get a job?”

“Yes.” Just because she had a trust fund and massive bank account, didn’t mean she shouldn’t make her own money. “But college first. I’ll make sure you get that.”

God, he felt as though he was Prometheus, defying the gods by stealing fire. It was exciting and terrifying, because he knew this would result in repercussions for both of them and he was leading them there anyway. 

“Okay.” She tapped her fork on her plate and he watched her face run through a range of emotions, finally settling on determined. “Okay! So…” She was quiet for a few seconds, now looking somewhat disoriented. “I don’t even know what I’d do. I’ve never had this option.”

His heart clenched in sympathy; he’d been in this position, too, at her age. He’d not known what he wanted to do with the sudden freedom he was going to be offered by the thought of adulthood and secondary education. Where his own dad wanted to push him into a field of academia that had both security and a large salary, Will decided that he would be the supportive parent she needed and wouldn’t impose his own will on her.

“What would you like to do?” he asked carefully.

She shook her head, eyes distant as she broke her marlin steak apart with her fork. “I don’t even know.”

He thought back to their first conversation. “Do you still want to be a psychiatrist?”

“Yes. I think it would be fun to listen to other people's problems, to try to solve them.”

He frowned, because that wasn’t exactly the feelings he was picking up on. “Do you think it would be fair to your patients to have you rummaging around in their brain simply because it amuses you?”

“Well, I could help them, too.” She looked convinced for a moment, then deflated as honesty overtook the conversation. “No, I wouldn’t help them. Not really. They’d just be a mortgage payment and entertainment.”

“I’d like to see you do something outside of medical school. Or Le Cordon Bleu,” he said very pointedly. 

She didn’t look insulted, simply waved her fork in a privileged manner and agreed. “Yes, I probably shouldn’t consider jobs based around my hobbies. It’s so tacky.” Her eyes quickly darted from his and her voice became hesitant. “I…I do like politics. I really have fun learning in your class.”

“Is it a field you want to stay in? It’s not a pretty place.”

“Are you trying to protect me?” She smirked and speared a piece of fish on her plate. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m not afraid of what others want to threaten me with.”

“You’ve only seen the triumphant side of politics. There’s so much more to it than what your dad’s done.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Now she was challenging him, which was a new look for her. “You could teach me.”

“What would you want to do in politics? I doubt you’d be happy with a job outside of the spotlight.” He felt that was the politest way to say that he knew her ego wouldn’t allow her _not_ to be the centre of attention. 

She set her fork down and gave him her full attention. “What do you see me as?”

“You have the ability to make large dent in the walls of history.” He pictured her getting arrested and impeached for intimidating mayors and councilmen, pictured her creating a surplus in the budget that rivaled the one during the Clinton administration. “But that could be either good or bad.”

“Scandal?” She raised an eyebrow.

“With you? Absolutely.”

“Hmm.” He wondered if she was imagining herself wielding unlimited power. “Would I be president?”

“Maybe. Or like your aunt.”

At the mention of Abigail’s aunt, the teenager’s eyes flashed with something like fear before quickly masking her emotions again. “So like a senator?”

He shrugged, knowing she was too codependent at the moment to ever succeed in a position that couldn’t allow for a partner. “Or governor. You’d thrive like that.”

She took a deep breath. “This is a lot to think about.”

He sighed. “Honey, if you don’t want to do that, you can work at a McDonald’s drive-through for all I care. I just want you to be happy.”

“Thank you for supporting me.” She gave him a shy smile. “I’ve never had the option to make my own future.”

“I’m sorry Hannibal never gave that to you.” And he was sorry for her, feeling pity that she’d managed to have so much stripped from her and it was impossible to say if she’d ever fully recover. 

“He’s just trying to give me the best the only way he knows how.”

“I won’t argue that he loves you,” he agreed, knowing full well that love from Hannibal was not gentle and kind.

“My dad is not just one person. He is a surgeon, an artist, a father, a flower-arranger, a gourmet cook, an oenophile, a brew-meister,” she took a deep breath and lowered her voice, “a boy who lost his sister, a brother who found her, a man who won’t stop killing, and a god. And _he gets hungry_.” “This is his world, Dad. I won’t deny him his potential.” 

“Where does that leave us, then? You deserve more than being his surrogate sister which—I assure you—is its own level of disturbing. It’s so, so sick to make you into a completely different person just to suit his whim.”

“Maybe I was always his sister. Maybe the universe was bringing us back together—“

Everything about this conversation was grating on Will and he had to cut her off. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s just going to leave us mad at one another.” 

“Very well.” She didn’t look offended as Hannibal would have been to be interrupted, merelyunsure of herself now. “What would you like to talk about?”

There were a thousand questions he had on the tip of his tongue, things he needed information on desperately because he could feel that the world was shift horribly and at any moment the siren song of Hannibal and Abigail’s love would draw him back to all the terrible and dark promises they had waiting for him. 

But Abigail was making an effort to be his daughter and he couldn’t afford to ruin the progress they’d made simply because he and Hannibal were trying to outlast one another. His stomach started to settle and he watched her begin to eat again. 

“We could talk about your work.”

Immediately her youth expressed itself, and like any child wanting assistance for something exhausting and overwhelming, she begged, “Can I hire you as a consultant for my office? I am seriously hating the kind of thing I’m reduced to. I have not spent the past decade becoming who I am to decide what the stupid White House gingerbread model looks like. Do you realise what a waste of time that office is? They are _seriously_ throwing away all my potential.”

He supposed that yes, someone who was one half of the accomplished Chesapeake Ripper duo would feel trapped in what was essentially a dead-end job, with no pay and perks that would have astounded the average person. He fought a smile at how this was her equivalent of working her first job at the walk-up counter of a fast food restaurant. 

“What you need to do, is create a day-to-day supervisor of affairs and events. Someone whose taste and style matches what you and your dad want in the White House. Then delegate all the tasks you hate to that person and at the end of the day you can sign off on the decisions they’ve made.” He took another bite of marlin and with his mouth full he added, “And you’re right—it is wasting your potential.”

“Is there some way I could _do_ more with my position? I like getting to make speeches and while going to Hong Kong by myself was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, it was still something productive.”

He nodded. “Oh, there’s plenty you could do—you’d have to redefine what the office of the First Lady does, but that’s not hard. I’m sure there would be people who’d welcome the change.”

“I just want to do something I can be proud of.”

He knew exactly how she felt. “You’re tired of presenting a performance piece to the nation. Everyone has confused your character for who you truly are.”

She sneered. “Like all of the charity work I’ve done and all of the face time I’ve put in for my dad’s campaign has been genuine, and not because I was playing a long term game. They think I’m some little puritanical teenager who’s living a Cinderella-life because my dad adopted me.” The bridge of her nose wrinkled slightly in annoyance. “Did you know that after Marissa died, everyone assumed that she’d been a bad influence on me and that’s why I was at that party over the summer? They think she peer-pressured me into drinking. They made me the _victim_ of it.”

“They implied you were too weak willed to say no.”

“And I didn’t say no because I liked letting Marissa have her way,” she explained quietly.

Will was starting to piece together the late Marissa Shurrs’ personality and he could see why Abigail had sought shelter in their friendship. “She thought she was the bad girl because of her small rebellions.”

Her look softened. “It was so cute. She’d tell me all these things about ‘bad’ stuff she’d done and…” Abigail gave a bittersweet smile. “She had no idea what it’s like.”

“To be bad?”

Abigail nodded. “I even had her fooled.” 

Will could see clearly now why Abigail had missed him so much—aside from her dad, there was no one on the outside world whom she socialised with, and certainly no one whom she could let her guard down around. She’d chosen to share her vulnerability with him and he’d thrown it back in her face; ostracising her wouldn’t help the problem with her world views and if he wanted to change them, he’d have to be her support. 

“That must be very hard for you,” he offered gently.

She sighed and he saw stoicism. “There are worse things in the world.”

“Even so.” He tapped his fork against what was left of the marlin on his plate. “I may not know what it’s like to be First Lady, but I do understand what it’s like to have to balance who you are as a person with what everyone sees.”

She nodded, but he could see that she didn’t quite believe that he knew how she felt, so in an act of desperation, he decided to try a joke.

“And Abigail?”

“Yes?”

“My consultation fee is one-hundred fifty an hour, but we can consider this session free.”

To his relief, the underlying tension she was exhibiting broke and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re very funny.”

*****

Will smiled at her, his eyes avoiding hers almost shyly and she could feel that the timing was perfect to reintroduce the ritual of gift-giving back into their relationship. 

“Um, I have something for you.” She stood up from the table and pulled out of her cardigan pocket a small jade carp she’d seen on her trip to Hong Kong and had bought it. Bringing it over to him, she waited until he held out his hand to accept and inspect it. “Because no matter what you feel right now, I am very thankful to have you as part of my life. And while I know you don’t want to be my other dad right now, you will be sooner or later and I’m not going to skip a holiday just because you hate me.”

“I love you, I just don’t know it yet,” he said, studying the piece.

She nodded. “Exactly.” 

“I actually have something for you.” He stood from the table, the stone fish in his hand. “Wait here.”

When he returned, he held something that had been wrapped with blue polka dot paper and yellow and pink ribbons. “I saw it in the campus bookstore the day after I got your birthday invitation.”

“You buy things for people when you get upset,” she said, accepting the book from him.

He didn’t maintain eye contact. “Yes.”

She unwrapped the book with care, making sure not to rip the paper or ribbons, wanting him to see that she had discipline to handle her presents properly. That had been a very aggravating lesson to learn when she’d first lived with her father. Setting the wrapping aside, she glanced over the book, reading the title aloud. “Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President’ by Candice Millard.” A smile came to her face and she opened the cover to see that on the front page, Will had written a message for her in blue pen.

_Happy Birthday Abigail_

_Lots of love,_

_Yours_

Yours. How wonderful. Not ‘Your Dad’ or ‘Will’, but ‘Yours’, whatever she wanted that to mean. And she wanted it to mean _everything_.

She set the book down on the table and threw her arms around him. “Thank you. So much.”

“You’re welcome, Abigail,” he murmured as his own arms came around to clutch her. “I thought out of any members of the First Family, you’d appreciate how morbid it is to buy a book about an assassinated president.” 

They held the comfortable embrace and she thought that this felt like home, too. 

“Daddy wanted to be here with us,” she told him.

Will sighed. “Well, I’m not ready to deal with both of you at the same time. And he knows that.”

“We miss you a lot.” She lowered her tone to sound more mournful. “It’s hard to be without you.”

“It’s hard for me to be around you. I want to trust you, but I can’t.”

“Your empathy is telling you it’s okay. Your heart tells you it’s okay,” she assured him, knowing that it must be true.

“And my brain refuses to let myself get hurt again.”

“Well, I hope your brain realises that you’re wasting the time you could be with us.”

“It’s not that simple.” He sounded as though he was in pain. “What if either of you get caught? I’ll lose you again. I can’t deal with that. It would destroy me.”

She wrapped her arms around him tighter, remembering her own fear of a life like Uncle Abel’s. “We won’t get caught.”

His breath caught in his throat and she felt it. “ _I_ caught you.”

She closed her eyes, insisting, “Daddy wanted to be found. Not the same thing.”

His hand rubbed her back. “It’s not fair to me. To ask me to risk everything.”

“What the fuck is fair in this world?” she mumbled against his shoulder. 

“I do love you, Abigail. But I don’t know if I can do it again.”

“You just need time,” she promised. “And while I don’t want to be patient—“

“You’re a hunter. You can be patient if this is what you really want.”

That was so true—she knew the importance of waiting for something she truly wanted and above anything, she wanted this family dynamic back. “Do you doubt that we really want you?” she asked. “Will, we love you. This is our love.” She held his palm against hers. “This is everything to me. I mean, I enjoy all my cousins and aunts and uncles, but getting to have another parent… I like that kind of love instead. Where love is instinctual.”

“Because you know I have no choice but to love you.”

She smiled, relieved he understood. “Yes. And I feel the same way, you know. Like I have to love you.” She beamed up at him. “Well. Now you know.”

“Now I know.”

“Let’s have dessert,” she suggested

“Sounds good.” He kissed to top of her head.

Humbled by the affection he was always so willing to offer her, she looked up at him and said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

*****

From the windows of the kitchen in the main house on the Kennedy Compound, Hannibal could look out over the lawn and the sea; the wild greys and dusky blues of the ocean reminded him too much of his troubled Will’s eyes and the turbulence of the clouds made him think of the younger man’s mind.

“I believe I’ll go out for a walk,” he announced to the room of assisting cousins.

His adoptive family immediately promised to watch over the food and as he set aside the bowl of spices he’d been blending, he allowed Secret Service the time to coordinate his unplanned venture outside. Dressing for warmth and letting one of his cousins feel productive with the offer of making him hot tea when he returned, he allowed himself to be escorted outside by a slew of agents. 

The wind outside was blowing stronger than it had when he’d arrived this morning and he raised his scarf up higher to protect his neck; but the walk down to the beach was filled with an absence of talking due to the wind and for that he was grateful. Today was the fortieth anniversary of Mischa’s death and while he was a man very much in control of his emotional status, being in the public spotlight had left his nerves exposed and raw. It was usually on this anniversary that Hannibal was all too painfully aware that he’d created Abigail out of the disgusting self-pity he’d never managed to fully exorcise from himself; Abigail was a weakness for him, the beautiful, clever, living symbol he’d constructed to ease suffering he wouldn’t admit to. 

And despite hating himself for it, he knew that if anything ever happened to Abigail due to his own actions, he would not want the world to continue. To lose Mischa once had been devastating, but the possibility of losing her again by reasons other than his own? Unacceptable. If he was the Sun, the centre of this particular galaxy, she was the all encompassing vastness of the universe. She was inseparable from him, the darkness that he would illuminate—after all, a sun did not require planets to orbit it, simply space in which to occupy. 

But today he’d needed space from his daughter, his psuedo-sister. Today she’d act as nothing more than areminder that while she was so much of what he wanted, she’d never be a replacement for what he’d lost. Thankfully, no one in this family was stupid enough to talk about the deceased and so he knew he’d never had to discuss those matters with them as an adult; there were a few—whom from the way they were overcompensating in kindness—who obviously understood what today was. 

Sand whipped across the beach, hitting his trouser legs. He’d been surrounded by people non-stop since he arrived this morning and he was already exhausted. His cousin Patrick and his wife, Amy, had brought along their newborn daughter and as Hannibal had never had any interest in infants (with the exception of his sister), he was more than happy to avoid the incessant fawning that the family would certainly obligate everyone to.The child, if he was to be completely honest, was nothing special. 

He placed his hands in his coat pockets, staring out at the waves. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to become transported back to the summer of his seventh year; the large August sun burned his unprotected skin as he’d refused to wear the wide-brimmed straw hat his mother had given him—he’d found the material too itchy on his scalp and it obstructed his peripheral vision. The hot sand beneath his bare toes, the summer breeze cooling the sweat across his scalp. He waved his small hand out at his mother’s Baltimore Clipper out on the ocean; he knew she and her fellow sailor friends were touring around the area and would return to dock on Nantucket Island. He shielded his eyes, waving again to the boat, thinking that the red stripe across the sail closest to the stern of the schooner looked very nice, like blood streaked across a brand new shirt.

“Are you waving to Mama, Hannibal?” his father asked him and he turned to stare at him.

Hannibal thought the question was redundant and instead knelt down on the sand in front of his sister, who was holding their father’s hand for balance and she touched at a plastic pail with her small fingers.

Hannibal pointed out to the Baltimore Clipper, directing her attention it. “Mischa, that’s Mama’s boat. It’s called the _Taitale_.”

“Do you know what that name means, Hannibal?” his father asked.

“No. Will you tell me?” 

“‘ _Taitale_ ’ is the Etruscan name for Daedalus, the Greek craftsman and artist. He was the father of—“

“Icarus, the one who flew too close to the sun and his wings melted and he drowned in the ocean,” Hannibal interrupted, even though he knew his mother had told him not to.

His father looked pleased. “Very good, you remember.” 

Hannibal touched his sister’s hand with his fingers, smiling at her. “Mischa, would you like me to make you a pair of wings?”

Hannibal opened his eyes to the sight of the rolling grey waves and the swollen clouds that filled the horizon. The wind had chilled his ears and nose at this point and he found that he would even welcome the tea his cousins’ had promised him. He turned to look back up the beach towards the walk way and Agent Price asked,

“Mr President, are you ready to return to the Main House?”

“I believe I am.” 

*****

Thanksgiving’s evening was blustery and the Kennedys had bunked down in the main house to escape the wind and cold moisture blowing in off the Atlantic; fires had been lit in all the fireplaces and many had gathered together in various family rooms to exchange stories and plans for the upcoming year. Bedelia had managed to convince her cousin Caroline to join her in the main house’s ‘wine grotto’, secluding them from the rest of the family. There was so much she needed to speak to her with; the eight year Lecter/Du Maurier administration’s plan had nearly one year down and Bedelia had taken great care to maneuver certain members of her family into positions that were going to amplify her power and would complement her leadership. Sweet Caroline was no exception. 

Bedelia was very aware that she was possibly the only person who could get away with calling her cousin ‘Sweet Caroline’ without getting irritated sighs and eye rolling, and she was careful to use it on rare and private occasions. There were members in the family that had suspected for years, and it had certainly made a popular nickname for her, but it wasn’t until 2007 that Neil Diamond had confirmed the matter and sang the song at Caroline’s 50th. Regardless, everyone had teased her with the name at some point or another, but Bedelia, being the baby of the cousins, could still get away with it. She poured the other woman a healthy glass of chardonnay and then sat down on the firm leather ottoman she’d picked for her seat.

“Hannibal in his room?” Caroline asked.

“Said he was feeling a bit under the weather.” Bedelia repeated Hannibal’s lie, even though no one had been convinced by it.

Judging from the look on her cousin’s face, she didn’t seem to believe the story at all. “Mmm.” Caroline took a sip of her chardonnay and then looked back up at her. “You know, I remember how when he was little, he’d never show emotions. Just that little smile on occasion, but never anything more. I used to worry. That his heart was so broken that he was left with numbness inside.” Then her worried brow softened and she gave a hopeful smile. “But then when he got Abigail…it was like his life started all over again.”

 _‘No,’_ Bedelia thought to herself, _‘it was because he’d become a politician and it meant he was required to emote more, albeit false expressions to the point where it had become second nature for him.’_ But Bedelia simply smiled serenely, nodding. Hannibal’s purchase of Abigail’s freedom had provided her the political dynasty that historians would write about for centuries. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about Mr Graham.”

Bedelia played coy, unsure what sort of rumours had been swirling around the Kennedy grapevine. She really didn’t need Hannibal’s little tryst with Graham to become a fact, even among people who knew to keep their mouthes shut. “Yes?”

“He’s Hannibal’s first friend that I’m aware of. Are things all right between them? I’ve read Lounds’ articles about the fact that they aren’t seen socialising as much as they had over the summer. I understand that Mr Graham’s been tending to his injuries and there was mention that Hannibal’s brought him dinner on occasion.” She paused and looked at Bedelia, but when Bedelia didn’t respond, Caroline continued with her train of thought. “I just want to make sure Hannibal’s all right. He’s so…” She gave a small sigh. “Delicate. I can’t help but think of him as that little boy who wouldn’t talk.”

Hannibal had the most darling reputation within the family for being _awkward_ around people. ‘The Social Anti-Social’ as he’d been called, as though it was innocence that kept him from connecting with others and not a general necessity of his depravity. Hannibal reminded her of a room of mirrors, all reflections false and numerous, all of them identical.

“Hannibal and his Mr Graham are still as good of friends as ever,” Bedelia insisted. “From what I understand, it’s easier on him to work at GWU right now. He’s still recovering from the encephalitis. It’s a two year antibiotic course. And being President means there isn’t much time for a social life. It’s rather amazing that he’s even able to schedule Mr Graham in.”

Caroline understood how complicated personal lives could become with the types of careers they had. “Hannibal could have invited him up, too, you know. Unless Mr Graham was going to spend Thanksgiving with his family?” Caroline shrugged slightly. “I just want Hannibal to have a strong support system back in DC. I love Jack and Phyllis to death, of course, and I know that you’re always there for him to talk to, but any extra person for him to confide in is healthy. Especially on days like this.”

They all knew that this was the anniversary of his rescue and his sister’s death, and while he never gave any outwards signs of distress, everyone secretly knew he was mourning. But it was forbidden to talk about those things, not wanting to admit he had an actual vulnerability. 

“Our Hannibal isn’t going to die because he’s been separated from his friend for a day.”

Caroline gave a small laugh. “We need to get Hannibal a girlfriend. Weren’t he and Alana—“

Bedelia quickly shook her head. “Alana doesn’t want to complicate things with him. She cares for him, but in a platonic way.”

“Shame.” 

Bedelia waved her hand dismissively, as though her cousin shouldn’t consider such matters. “Hannibal is much too busy with the state of the nation to worry about courting anyone right now. Once we’ve gotten this first term out of the way, then he can focus on affairs of the heart.”

God help them if it became public that Hannibal was having an affair with a man before the 2016 elections. 

“Just worried he’s lonely.” Caroline gave her a sad smile. 

“It’s always lonely at the top, Caroline,” Bedelia said, speaking from upmost experience. “But if anyone was built to weather the seclusion power brings, it’s him.” 

*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +‘Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President’ by Candice Millard is an actual book that was released in 2013 and discusses President Garfield, his potential, his assassination, his assassin, and how Alexander Graham Bell tried to save the dying president. 
> 
> +A Baltimore Clipper is one of three types of schooner specifically developed for the Chesapeake Bay. 
> 
> +A schooner is a sailing ship with two or more masts, typically with the foremast smaller than the mainmast, and having gaff-rigged lower masts.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

Abigail woke to the sound of her phone giving a soft beep at her father’s incoming text messages. She forced her eyes open and when she read what her father had written, she found clear instructions that she was to get out of bed and make breakfast to surprise Will; he told her were all the ingredients were in Will’s kitchen and she yawned as she replied with an affirmative. 

The kitchen floors were cold and she vowed that she would never take her home in Baltimore for granted again; she hated slippers and felt that socks just picked up dirt on their soles when she walked on the floor. At least she was able to move about silently. There were agents in the kitchen making coffee and small talk as they prepared to transfer between the night and morning shifts, each greeting her as she began to prepare breakfast.

Agents who were willing to forgo holidays such as Christmas, the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and the Superbowl were given rich compensation in the form of longer holiday breaks at different times of the year and quicker promotions. The Secret Service was a professional masochism in some ways—the understanding that one had to sacrifice so much for the rare event someone actually tried to kill one of the people they were assigned to. Agents had to miss important family events on a regular basis and work long hours that required focus and dedication that perhaps were only comparable to she and her father targeting someone to kill. As a rule, she respected the agents whom she spent so much time around, and while her father was indifferent to their work for the most part, Abigail made sure they understood she was grateful for everything they did.

Will enjoyed comfort foods and so she was to make pancakes for him. Will would like pancakes and her father had already given her clear instructions what to make for him; she was certain that if Will had been more receptive to their cooking, her father would have told her to make something far more elegant and time consuming, but as it was, there was still a possibility that Will wouldn’t accept the pancakes, considering she was preparing them without him present. 

But Will showed up to the kitchen as she was mixing all the ingredients together to form the batter. He looked half awake and had a thin flannel robe around him, eyeing one of the agents she was talking to as he poured himself a travel mug of coffee.

“Morning,” Will said quietly, shuffling over to get himself a mug.

“Good morning. I thought I could make pancakes for you.” 

He looked at the mixing bowl in her arms for a moment then nodded his approval. “I’d like that.” 

“Chocolate chips, right?”

“Yes.” 

“Agent Greene was telling me about the weather forecast.” She nodded her head to the agent leaving the room. 

Once the agents had cleared out to give them privacy, he asked, “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. You?”

“Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and halfway to walking back to the kitchen table, he gave her an odd look. “Does your dad have any allergies?”

“Um…” For a moment she was hung up on pollens or hayfever, but then she recalled the lack of plastic bandages growing up. “Like latex?”

“How long has he had that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, his whole life, obviously. That’s why it was always such a treat to get avocados.”

Will gave her a blank look, not understanding what she meant. 

“Oh, you can’t have certain foods if you have a latex allergy. Strawberries, bananas, avocados…those make his tongue blister if he eats too much of them. Though, he loves strawberries. He rarely avoids using them,” she explained as she added the chocolate chips to the batter. “Didn’t you know about that? Like, what they tell you about candidates? Or did he just tell you?”

“I figured it out,” he mumbled.

“Oh, condoms.” She gave him a knowing smile at his shocked look. “Empathy.”

His face was burning red as he bit out, “That wasn’t empathy. That’s deduction. And you are way too candid sometimes.”

“I forget that some people…” She realised she’d stopped stirring the batter and started moving the spoon through it again. “Anyway.”

“No, say it.”

“I forget that some people think differently than me. That I quantify things differently. With you, I don’t have a script to play off of—everyone else is easy enough to bullshit and they think I’m like them,” she explained. “With other people, they wouldn’t be talking about my father like this, so there’s no risk I’ll say something ‘wrong’, but with you and Daddy and Aunt Bee, I don’t have…” she tried to sort out her thoughts. “I don’t have to censor myself. They…process their thoughts the same way as me. So it’s not weird to them that I know my father has a sex-life with you because it’s not weird—it’s a fact. I mean, I can _see_ you’re uncomfortable with the fact that I know about it. I don’t see why—I’m glad you’re both in love and share that kind of time with one another.”

“Do you talk this way about your own,” he choked out the next word, “relationships with him like this?”

“Yeah. Why? Aren’t parents supposed to know about what their children are up to?”

“Yes, but parents and children generally try to hide that kind of thing from one another.”

She remembered how much Marissa had hated talking to her parents. “Because they’re embarrassed.”

“Because it’s normal to want to have a separation of self from your parents. And parents not wanting to view their children as sexual beings.”

Her eyes went wide. “He doesn’t—“

He held up his hands, which caused his mug of coffee to slosh liquid down the side. “I’m not saying in an incestuous way. I’m saying that parents don’t like to consider their children as adults in any way.”

“Oh.” She was aware of that to some extent but had never really considered the depth of what that meant. “Well, I’m okay with him knowing things about me. Sex is just sex.”

“I’m sure you’ll have something in your life someday that you won’t want to share with him.”

Abigail thought the whole thing was very strange—sure, sex felt good and was an excellent way to kill time, but like, why did it have to be a taboo topic of discussion when Will already knew _actual_ bad things about her? Why would she _not_ understand that he and her father were fucking?

She fucked Dr Sutcliffe because she knew he was discrete, clean of STDs, fairly easy to get ahold of, and had an IQ high enough to realise that trying to blackmail her would end up with him dead in a ditch. She didn’t exactly like him, but she sort of did? In a ‘Thank-you-for-being-an-excellent-participant-I-can-put-in-a-good-word-for-you-when-you-seek-out-a-new-partner’ sort of way. It was just business. She wanted to get laid and obviously he did, too. Wasn’t that what dating was? Only you enjoyed spending other time with a person, too?

“You’re thinking rather loudly.”

She looked back at Will, wondering if she’d said any of that out loud until Will added, “The empathy. Can we talk about something else to get our minds off of it?”

“Sure. Anything you want, Dad,” she told him sincerely.

*****

While Will didn’t particularly like watching tv during the day, the weather outside was shit and Abigail had brought over a few dvds for the two of them to watch together on the couch. Winston was following them around, curiously watching them as they moved into the living room, and Will didn’t miss the fact that the dog once so close to him now looked to Abigail first; Will wasn’t jealous and a touch proud that he took Abigail to be the pack leader, which showed that she had in fact been a very good owner. Will hoped that Hannibal realised how good it was for Abigail to have this kind of positive responsibility over someone’s life.

“Could we watch Fargo first?” she asked as she settled on the couch.

“Sure.”

“It’s my favourite film,” she informed him as he turned on the tv and DVD player.

“I expected ‘Natural Born Killers’, to be honest,” he said, only partially joking.

“Um, a little too ‘art film’ for me. I prefer something a little more linear.” She smiled at him. “What’s your favourite film?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve seen it yet.” 

Winston hopped up onto the couch, making himself small as he rest his head on Abigail’s lap, tail thumping slowly against armrest; Will raised an eyebrow at the dog and Winston stared at him hopefully. But Will said nothing and simply sat down beside Abigail, who immediately curled up against him. It was never a surprise to him that Abigail took liberties with other’s bodies; as she lounged against him, Will considered that as a serial killer, she would be accustomed to taking liberties with others’ personal spaces, seeing them as nothing more than objects that served her purposes. Hannibal was more conscientious and had trained himself to remain aware of the fact that others would pick up on intrusions, but she was still young and god knew teenagers had a hard time grasping boundaries. However, Will didn’t mind that she wanted to be close to him and shifted slightly so that she was more comfortable against his shoulder.

They were half-way though the film when she broke the comfortable silence between them. “One time when I was little, Daddy surprised me with a pillow fort in the spare guest room. He brought the tv up so we could eat popped corn and watch movies. He told me that he was my best friend.”

The statement was casual, but Will felt it as a subconscious cry for help.

“You can see how manipulative that is,” he pointed out.

“Shut up,” she ordered, her voice a whisper. After some time she added in a sad manner, “He’s allowed to be my best and only friend.”

“No. He’s not.” Will sounded sad, too. “Do you know why you’ve started referring to him as ‘Daddy’ again?” She shook her head slowly, looking up at him apprehensively. “Because you know how he responds to it. He takes so much pleasure in that role, being your guiding star and your protector. And you see me as a rival.”

She shook her head, horrified. “What—“

“I’m not saying you’re aware of that. You just don’t like competing with me. I take up his time and attention, and you’re left to fight for it. As you’ve always had to.”

Her hand gripped his wrist tightly as she insisted, “I don’t—I’m not—“

“I know you don’t hate me. It’s your self-preservation. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Winston let out a small whine, having picked up on their distress; Abigail and Will began to pet and comfort the dog. Once his tail began thumping again and he stretched out his front legs, Will turned his attention back to the film.

“I do love you, too.” Abigail’s voice was quiet, but resolute. 

“I know you do.” That was very true—even when he’d dreaded her, he’d never doubted that she was feeling her own version of love for him. “And that’s why I know you’re not my rival, but my ally.”

“I’m yours. Whether or not you think of me as your daughter.”

“I think of you as a part of me. Something I couldn’t separate from myself if I tried.”

“Good.” Naturally she didn’t see that as a devastating realisation for him to have reached. “I want to be your heart. He can be your brain.”

“God, no.” That was not an allegory he wanted to consider. “You’re both lungs. Prone to infections and a pair.”

“You can be part of my heart. The right side.” She cuddled back up against him. “People can live with just one lung.”

“But it’s a terrible existence.” 

Abigail looked as though she was ready to chastise him for making the conversation continually take negative turned, so he turned his attention back to the tv, hoping she considered that less confrontational. After a moment, she spoke again and he sensed she was testing the waters of his feelings. 

“Daddy used to read to me every night for at least two hours. He’d let me sit in his lap and he’d take books that never in a million years one would expect a kid to listen to. It was wonderful.” Receiving no complain from him, she continued. “Medical texts, Emily Post, Tony Hillerman—“

Will glance back down at her. “He read Tony Hillerman to you?”

“Of course. The books are well written.” She scratched her fingers under Winston’s jaw. “Anyway, he was the one who taught me how to read; he’d put his finger under each word and I’d follow along. I already knew basic words, but he really was the one who showed me.”

“My dad was dyslexic. Still have no idea how I even learned how to read. But I devoured books constantly. All kinds. Got them from thrift stores and out of those donation boxes people give to churches. Read a lot of things I probably shouldn’t have when I was little.” Will felt his nostalgia as a piece of sand beneath his eyelid and he wiped at his eye, not allowing it to form as a tear. “They were the only friends I knew I would have no matter where we moved to.”

“What’s your favourite Tony Hillerman book?” she asked.

“‘A Thief of Time’.”

“I like ‘The Sinister Pig’,” she replied. 

As the film continued, Will considered that this was possibly the most normal thing Abigail had had in her life in a long time, that he was truly a point of stablity for her. And despite all of his misgivings, how could he deny her that?

“You’re smarter than the devil and twice as pretty,” he told her, draping an arm over her shoulders to pull her closer. 

“You really think I’m prettier than my dad?” she teased. 

Will just smiled and kept watching the film. 

*****

Franklyn looked over the business card Freddie Lounds had given him weeks previous; he was sitting in his (second favourite) armchair in his living room, trying to block out the sound of nephews and nieces running around the house, shouting and screaming. His brother-in-law Derrick was sitting in his good leather recliner, sipping on a ginger ale as a college football game played on his brand new flat screen; the volume was on mute, only the second quarter of a very slow match between two teams that neither men really cared about. His sister Bernice, and his sister-in-law Sandra, were working in the kitchen on scrapbooking (something that Franklyn found impossibly boring), and his older brother Dan had run down to the store to buy more half-and-half for some sort of dessert he was making. 

The three Froideveaux lived off a very healthy inheritance from their late father’s family vineyards in California and Burgundy; their mother lived in a nice senior community in Phoenix, Arizona, and flat out refused to come to the east coast after Labor Day, complaining of the cold, while their stepmother Randi lived in St Bart’s, tanning on the beach and lazing the day away on her portion of Thomas Froideveaux’s money. Franklyn invited both women to Thanksgiving every year, but both always said ‘no’, which was just as well as both of them nagged him endlessly. Franklyn had bought this house years ago when he’d got the job as Tobias’ assistant; he’d met Bedelia Du Maurier at a wine tasting event and he was certain she was ready to dismiss him when he revealed that he was one of _those_ Froideveaux, someone who came from old money and class. She’d spent part of the evening asking him a dizzying amount of questions and by the end of the night, she’d given him her card, telling him to call her on the following Monday. He’d been hopeful that she was interested in having dinner with him, but instead she proposed that he could work for an up-and-coming politician; it had been thrilling and unexpected, but he’d wanted to impress her, so he’d done as she’d asked and found himself with a best friend and sense of purpose. Working for Tobias had been his first real job and he’d celebrated by buying this mid-century modern.

“So, do you think you’re cut out to write articles?” Derrick asked curiously.

Franklyn had just mustered the courage to talk to the adult members of his family about the opportunity he’d been given by Lounds and though he’d braced himself for eyerolling (as he was prone to get when he announced one of his new hobbies), he found everyone to be intrigued, which he found to be a good sign. Also, it was a more appealing topic than ‘Why Don’t You Have a Girlfriend Yet, Franklyn?’

“I don’t know. I think so.”

Derrick paused in bringing his can back up to his mouth. “How often would you have to write them?”

“She didn’t say exactly. I think we still have to iron the details of exactly what I’d be contributing,” he admitted, somewhat nervous that his brother-in-law would think he was an idiot for not asking more questions of Lounds at the time.

His sister, who’d been half listening in the kitchen came over to stand beside her husband’s chair, leaning against it. “And the Governor is okay with you doing it?”

“Tobias said it might be okay. As long as I ran the prompts by him and then showed him my work. But he might have just been humouring me.”

Derrick hummed in agreement, as though he was aware of how Tobias functioned. 

“I’d really like to,” Franklyn added.

“Then you should do it, Franky.” Bernice gave him an encouraging smile. 

Derrick nodded. “As long as it doesn’t jeoprodise your job, you should do it, man. Just make sure you can’t get sued for this kind of thing. Have an attorney look over your contract with the Governor’s office and you should be okay.”

Derrick worked in San Francisco for Google and knew a lot about ownership of work, so Franklyn nodded and quickly typed a reminder in his phone to share that information with Tobias.

“I’m going to text her right now to set up a meeting,” he said, quickly adding her contact information to his phone to send a text out.

“Good luck,” Derrick said before turning his attention to his wife.

Franklyn ignored their kissing to type out: <<Hello, Ms Lounds. This is Franklyn Froideveaux and I’d like to set up a meeting about writing for Tattle-Politics>>

*****

They’d exhausted their supply of movies and Will could tell that Abigail was getting close to exhausting her interest in the fly tying, too, and they’d completed the five outdoor dog shelters he’d been planning on setting out along his ‘rescue route’, so Will asked Abigail for any suggestions as to what they could do with their time together. 

Her suggestion was something curiously alarming. “Do you want to play psychiatrist? I'll just lie down here on your couch and you ask me questions.”

She reclined on the couch before he could reply, crossing her legs at the ankles and folding her hands on her stomach. Will felt a small wave of repulsion as he realised what ‘psychiatrist’ was actually for—a way to manipulate the younger Lecter, a way to pry into her mind under the guise of ‘fun’.

“This is a game that you and your dad used to play when you were little,” he said quietly. 

“Yes.” She smiled at him. “He’d ask me questions and when I was done answering, he’d take me out for ice cream.”

Will sat down slowly in his armchair, faced with the temptation of picking her brain. “Did you ever get to ask him questions?”

“Of course. That’s why I want to be a psychiatrist. He’d call me ‘Dr Lecter’ and I’d have a notebook I could write in…” She turned her face back to the ceiling, her smile fading. “I miss doing that with him. We had so much fun. He’d tell me about his day and the people that got in his way. What music he was composing and what he thought of our neighbors.” Her expression had become sad, that of a child neglected. “Now he’s too busy. His mind is in a million different places and he doesn’t…trust himself with giving me answers. He doesn’t want to look so thinly stretched, but I can tell. I can see it.” She glanced over at him, adding, “You’re breaking his heart.”

“You’re supposed to keep this separate from our personal relationship,” he reminded in a tone that dozen psychiatrists had used on him at one point or another in his life.

She nodded her head quickly. “Oh, sorry. Daddy is so in love with Will and it’s breaking his heart. He’s used to getting what he wants and he wants to give Will everything, but Will won’t take it. I don’t even know what to do.” 

“Let’s not speculate on what your dad’s thinking.”

“Okay.” It took her a few seconds to pick another topic she thought he might like to listen to. “I’ve been thinking about having my dad on the cooking videos with me. I really don’t like these celebrity chefs they keep bringing up during the meetings—they’re all too cheerful.”

“Abigail, why don’t we talk about something other than your dad,” he suggested. 

“Oh.” She wondered if he was still too sensitive to talk about her father and needed to change the subject. “We could talk about you?”

“Why don’t we talk about you instead?”

She was quiet, unsure what to say—she thought she _was_ talking about herself. 

“Abigail, sometimes I think you see yourself as an extension of other people, and not your own person.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t relate to a situation unless you are talking about another person. You talk about your emotions, but only if they’re in the context of someone else.”

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked, staring at the cracks on the plaster of the ceiling.

“Well, you don’t exist simply to act as a reflection of the world around you. You’re allowed to shape it, too.”

Abigail breathed in and then out; she thought she was shaping the world around her. Yes, it was based off what her father wanted, and yes, it based on their shared agenda, but—

“Tell me about something that’s shaped you, Abigail. And not your dad.”

She thought for a moment. What were things that had shaped her? The first word that came to her mind was ‘hate’. Yes, there was so much in her life that she truly hated. She hated the shallowness of the wealthy who thought money could buy class. She hated the apathy of the students she’d been surrounded by in Sidwell. But she didn’t want to talk about either of those groups—they didn’t deserve the honour of her time. 

“I think I'm mad at my mom,” she finally settled. “She didn't protect me and she should have.”

“She tried,” Will suggested.

“But it wasn't good enough.” Something in the centre of her chest hurt briefly.

“What if she had saved you? You would never have known Hannibal as your dad.” Will’s voice was so calm and soothing.

She couldn’t imagine a life where her father existence overwhelmed everything she knew. “I know. I think about that sometimes. If I’d still be a killer. If I would have met my dad by simply crossing paths with another hunter.”

“He wouldn't be president.” 

She smiled as she remembered what Will had told her that night at Boring. “I made him the president. Even Aunt Bee couldn't do that.” 

“And she sees that. You're a challenge to her because you can do things she can’t.” 

“That’s because I love him. She doesn’t. She just likes the idea of him, not the reality. And I think that's why I hate _your_ mom. She abandoned you. My mom abandoned me.”

“She couldn't have abandoned you if she's inside you,” Will pointed out. 

She nodded, her mind filled with hazy memories of eating a slice of meat that had been cooked in a scratched teflon pan. “I made her stay. A hostage.”

“Hostages seems to be a reoccurring theme in this family.” Will didn’t sound impressed.

“Maybe it’s more natural than we realise,” she proposed, wanting him to feel better.

He sighed. “It’s called captor bonding. The more your captor likes you, the harder it is for them to kill you.”

Abigail frowned. “He’d never kill me.”

“Yes, he would. To spare you.” His tone went quieter. “And I think you know it.”

Well, she knew that was true. “But he does love me.”

“Which isn’t any safer than him hating you.”

“I would kill him to spare him. If he was suffering,” she considered.

“What do you feel when you meet people?” he asked and she heard him shifting in his chair. 

She shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing.”

“What about when you meet someone who’s dying of an illness?”

“Um…I don’t know. Nothing?” She couldn’t remember feeling anything but apathy.  

“What about an animal? One that’s in pain or scared?”

That was an easy answer. “Well, I feel bad for it. I want to help.”

“You see animals in the same way you see your younger self,” he explained. “Something smaller, that can’t communicate properly, that doesn’t understand why it’s being hurt.”

“Oh.” Her hand curled reflexively at that thought of petting Winston. “So I project my own emotions towards my younger self on animals?”

“Are animals equal to humans?” he asked, not answering her question. 

“Um.” She wasn’t sure how to answer that. 

“Be honest,” he coaxed.

“No. They’re not worth less than a human. But they’re not equal.”

“And is that how you see your younger self? Not without worth, but not an equal?”

She thought of the way she’d died on security camera footage. “But how could she be an equal?”

“How could you hate my mom? You don’t know her,” Will countered. 

She rolled over onto her stomach, picking at the couch cushion. “Doesn’t matter. You hate her.”

“I don’t.” He sounded confused. 

“You don’t hate the woman who abandoned you?” she said skeptically, turning to look at him with eyebrows raised.

“I would rather someone who didn’t want me not have any say in my life,” he said simply, his eyes avoiding hers. 

She was certain she’d hit a nerve, but not wanting to push him away, she didn’t pursue the matter. “Fair enough.”

They were quiet for a while and Abigail rest her head on the couch once more, watching the flames in the fireplace; Winston was stretched out on an old bath towel, lost in a deep sleep as his nose twitched.

“Do you know why I love you? Why I think of you as my daughter?” Will asked, breaking the silence. 

“Why?” That was a question she’d never realised she’d wanted answered. 

“Because you can do something that Hannibal can never do.” He turned to look at her. “Do you know what that is?”

She shook her head. There couldn’t possibly be anything that she could do that her father couldn’t. “No.”

“You can grow. You have the capacity to become someone better. Your dad doesn’t know how to do that. He’s not capable of it.” Will’s eyes were distant. “When you lack empathy, when you can’t see yourself in someone else’s shoes, you’re not truly able to grow as a human being. Your dad plateaued somewhere in his youth, when he was very young. He’s able to build layers on top of himself, knowledge that serves him very well as he’s gotten older, but he never changed.” His head tilted slightly, as though he was processing her father’s psychological profile. “I think he developed a certain level of compassion that he was forced to gain when you came into his life—he had to either adapt or fail to thrive—you were a very large shift in his world. But you—you could be so much more than he ever thought or dreamed. You could be someone. You could really have a life outside of this.”

She didn’t understand. “But why does that make me special? If so many other people can do that?”

“You give me hope. I see how I can influence your life and that you’d thrive. You’re so damn smart and if I could…redirect you down a different path…”

“I don’t really know what to say,” she said, feeling very uncomfortable.

“Oh—fuck, I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t have said any of that. See, this is why I don’t like picking around in other brains. I say—I say really stupid things. The stuff you never want to hear. I’m so sorry, honey.”

She considered feigning further misery just so she could hear him call her a pet name again, but decided against it, emotions still a little raw. She worried that any more affection from him might make her hate him or want to cry.

He took her hands between his and gently stroked at her knuckles with his thumbs. His voice was gentle and filled with concern as his eyes met hers. “Let me get you some ice cream, okay?”

She gave a small nod in acceptance. “Thank you.”

As he left for the kitchen, she watched him curiously. Swallowing away any tears, she asked, “Do you feel that way? All the time?”

“Yes.”

She couldn’t imagine being a slave to other people’s emotions. “That must be horrible.” 

He gave her a very forlorn look before leaving for the kitchen. She exhaled. He’d given her a lot to think about and she really had no idea where any of the information fit into her mind.

And now she could truly see what it was that her father liked about Will: he was dangerous and manipulative, too, but because he thought he was doing something out of kindness or righteousness, she’d have a harder time denying him. 

*****

Jack sat beside Bella in a guest bedroom of Vice President Du Maurier’s Hyannis Port summer home; he was reading a newspaper, his legs kicked up on the mattress as she painted her nails with a strengthening formula. Normally, he’d complain about the terrible chemical scent the gloss had, but as of late, he found himself unable to complain about the things she did—all of her little habits made his heart ache and he couldn’t bear the thought of making her stop the parts of herself that made her Bella.

“Do you think it’s too late to have kids?” he asked as the heater in the room turned on automatically.

She looked up from her fingers briefly, one eyebrow raised. “Us?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes.” She was blunt, but gentle. “I thought we decided that we didn’t want them.”

His eyes were on the newspaper, but he was no longer reading. “I’ve just been thinking. When you’re gone, I’m not going to have anything left of you.”

“And a child would be a part of me you could have for a very long time.” 

He said nothing, aware how obvious his motives were. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She knew that wasn’t entirely the truth and painted a second coat on her nails. “I’m not upset. I know you’re only trying to make me feel guilty for not telling you about the cancer earlier.”

“You should have said something to me, Bella. I’m your partner.”

“I love you and that’s why I said nothing.”

“You told Hannibal.” Jack allowed a hint of bitterness into the tone of his voice. 

One thing he knew to be true was that it was next to impossible to get Bella into an argument; she was just too damn diplomatic and controlled, even when he tried to goad her. All he wanted was a reaction from her, to know she was just as scared as he was about all of this. 

But she was serene. “I confirmed to him what he already knew.”

There was still so much to say and even though Jack knew he was running out of time, he couldn’t bring himself to say more; it made him feel helpless and cowardly, but he couldn’t bear the thought of upsetting Bella so much that she might hide even more from him later on. 

“Maybe in December if there’s a break, we could go to Italy for the weekend. I’m sure Hannibal would be able to give us the time for that,” he said in lieu of everything else he wanted to say. 

This earned a slightly surprised, but pleased look from Bella. “I’d like that.” She touched her hand to his. “Don’t ask him—I’ll do it.”

He found it in him to smile. “Gotcha.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Love you.”

He smiled and returned the gesture. “I love you, too.”

*****

Abigail was standing in Will’s bathroom, applying mascara and false lashes to dry, while he stood at his bed and folded his laundry; he was under the assumption that she was putting on makeup in preparation for her father’s arrival back at the White House, which seemed a little early considering Hannibal wasn’t returning until very late tonight, but just happy to have her nearby meant he wasn’t going to openly question it. Though there was something about it that seemed just ‘off’ enough that he kept looking up at her, studying. 

“I’m going to the opera tonight. Which pair of earrings should I wear?” she finally called out as he sorted some socks in need of serious repair. 

She held up one that was dangles of chartruse and another that was a teardrop of opal, and he disregarded both.

“Without your dad?” He was starting to piece together what felt so remiss.

She turned back to the mirror and held the opal earring back up to her ear. “I’m going with Governor Budge and his assistant, Franklyn.”

That didn’t sound right. “Really?”

“They gifted me tickets for my birthday. Daddy was invited, too, but he declined.”

“Does he know you’re going?”

“Yes.” She turned and looked at him, holding up the earrings. “Which one?”

He gave her an exasperated look and pointed to the opal. “You want me to tell you these ones.”

The look in her eyes told him that was true, but if he’d recommended the other one, he suspected she would have worn them instead. “Yes, they are the best choice.” As she placed both earrings back in her jewellery pouch, she attempted to alleviate his concerns. “Don’t worry so much. You’re as bad as the cousins.”

“You know, your dad doesn’t want you to be around either of those men.” Will hoped that he could dissuade her from the performance, uncomfortable for her to be in that situation.

“I know.” She began to rummage though her makeup bag. “It’s because of what Governor Budge did.”

“What did he do?”

She gave him a curious look, as though she couldn’t believe he didn’t already know. “He killed someone.”

Will rubbed his hands over his face. “What is with Maryland politicians? Are all of them complete psychopaths?”

“I don’t think all of them,” she said quite seriously. 

He gave her a very tired look. He didn’t want to know, but he had to ask. “Who?”

She shrugged in the nonchalant way all teenagers seemed instinctually apt to do. “Someone in the Philharmonic. Date gone bad.”

“How did your dad find out?”

“Walked in on it.”

“Abigail, I don’t want you around him either.”

“Nothing’s going to happen!” she was exasperated, waving her false lashes the way he used to shake developing Polaroid film. 

“He’s obviously a dangerous man,” he insisted, feeling ridiculous that he was actually having to give this discussion. 

She snorted, applying the lashes carefully above her own. “ _Please_.”

“Abigail…”

She blinked her eyes a few times at the mirror, seeming to check if the false lashes were attached then turned to look at him. “I’m going to see the show and then come home. I won’t go anywhere with him. I won’t do anything illegal. Wouldn’t want to make Daddy jealous.”

“It shouldn’t be about if this is going to make your dad mad. Why would you want to be around someone dangerous?”

“It’s easier to be myself. There are things I can do or say that won’t seem odd to him.” Oh yes, right now she was just an irritated teenage daughter that thought she could handle herself. “I mean, that’s why you like Daddy, isn’t it? That he doesn’t make you feel unusual?” He began to open his mouth to forbid her explicitly from leaving the house, but she cut him off. “I’m not implying that Governor Budge and I will share anything like what you both have—I just mean that I can let my human veil slip a bit while I’m out.”

“Human veil?”

“That’s what Aunt Bee calls it. Where you have to act in a way according to the people you have to stand amongst.”

He felt himself tense and he asked in a cold, but calm voice, “And what side of your veils do I get?”

“You see us. You just didn’t understand what it was at first.”She tilted her head slightly and her lips hinted at a smile. “You felt at home with us because you saw your reflection.”

“Don’t make me sound like I do what you do.”

“Reflecting the beauty in yourself, not the ugliness in others,” she continued.

There was a staring match between the two of them, then with a feeling of defeat, he looked away and insisted, “I want you to head straight home the moment the programme ends, do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“And for the love of god, if there is anything at all that isn’t what you want, then hit your panic button.”

“Okay,” she said and he knew she was lying through her teeth. 

“Abigail, the world can still be a dangerous person for smart people. I don’t want you to be arrogant enough to think you can’t be touched.”

“I promise I’ll be safe.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t raise you from the beginning—I wouldn’t have let you get this attitude,” he muttered, leaning against the door frame as he watched her apply eyeliner. 

She had the sense to look offended. “Entitled?”

“ _Invincible_ .”

*****

Abigail thought the gown she’d picked to wear to the performance was a bit heavy in material and she hoped it didn’t give her a sore back or shoulders by the end of the night. Barney wore a tuxedo, and as they sat aside by side in the car, he straightened his cummerbund, which was a surprising matching red.

“Excited you’re able to attend all my functions for free?” she joked.

“That’s why I applied for the job,” he deadpanned. 

“Ah, the secret is out.” They shared a smile. “It’s going to be a good performance.”

“Oh, definitely,” he agreed. “I’ll be sitting behind you to your right, if you need anything.”

It took her a few seconds to realise that he was telling her that if Governor Budge attempted to do anything she might not like, he’d be right there to protect her. She knew it was completely unnecessary, but didn’t want to spoil the mood by arguing, she she simply said, “Thank you,” to put his mind at ease. 

Tonight they would be arriving ‘fashionably late’, as the public was not aware she’d be attending the performance and for security reasons, this gave the Secret Service the upper hand. She was also thankful that she didn’t have to drag her assistant along with her tonight—Georgia belonged at Taylor Swift concerts, not in places one had to be their most refined self. The Governor and his assistant were already waiting in the reserved box seating that overlooked the stage, and both stood when she entered.

“First Lady,” Budge greeted, holding out his hand for her to shake. “So delighted you could attend.”

She smiled. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Franklyn, ever enthusiastic, leaned over to shake her hand. “Good to see you, Abigail.”

“Likewise, Franklyn.” 

Abigail glanced down at the mostly filled rows of seats below, watched the people still filing in through the doors, then turned her attention back to the two men sitting in the front row of the box with her. 

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Franklyn asked.

She nodded. “Great. Yours?”

“Really good. My brother and sister came over with their families. 

“How nice. And yours, Governor Budge?”

Budge was reserved as expected. “I spent the day with friends who didn’t have family in the area and we had a simple meal.”

She could imagine it had been a very elegant affair free of emotions. “That sounds lovely. Very relaxed.”

“It was.”

“I invited him to come over, but he declined.” Franklyn’s tone was flippant as though he was telling a funny joke, but Abigail could see the disappointment that he’d been turned down by the governor.

Abigail smiled politely and was saved from any further conversation as the lights in the Myerhoff dimmed; their attentions turned towards the stage and she could hear her agents behind her shifting and settling into the shadows to watch the audience. When the music began, she lost herself to the performance entirely, somewhat conscientious that her father wasn’t with her, but that at least she wasn’t among strangers. During the intermission she opted to go downstairs to the private lounge that only season ticket holders were allowed to use; Abigail knew the room like the back of her hand and had been going there since her father adopted her; in fact, she was the youngest member to ever hold season tickets to the Myerhoff. Budge and Franklyn joined her and they started a discussion on the subtleties that modern performance was lacking as of late.

The private lounge was crowded and of course, she was the target of everyone’s interests the moment she entered the room; she kindly shook hands with everyone, people she recognised occasionally by name, occasionally by face. Flanked by the governor and by Franklyn, she wasn’t left without a proper introduction as the two seemed to know _everyone_. Barney towered behind her and she was certain that his presence was what was keeping people at polite distances and doing nothing more than giving nervously formal ‘hellos’ and ‘nice to see yous’. Franklyn grabbed the three of them drinks from a passing waiter, saying they should all go stand by the weird, modern art sculpture that had been mounted to the wall on the opposite side of the room. It was agreed upon and they made their way over, the crowd being parted by their presence and her other agents. 

As everyone’s eyes were focused on their faces, she felt the governor switching glasses with her. “The champagne is so much nicer,” he murmured in her ear and she nodded, watching him drinking the sparking white jasmine tea that should have been hers. She raised her glass to him, then sipped on her champagne, wondering if her agents had noticed the switch, certain that Barney had. 

“It’s a pity your father couldn’t attend,” Budge commented as she took another sip of the forbidden alcohol. It was delicious.

“Well, he wished to spend time with the family.” She hoped her lipstick wasn’t smudging and upon reaching the security of their new standing spot, she made a covert glance in the glass of a framed Picasso and was relieved to see that everything was fine. Turning her eyes back to her two companions, she commented, “I have missed these soirées.”

“I can only imagine. The White House doesn’t seem very open to hobbies such as ours,” Budge replied.

“Nothing like getting to spend time with friends,” Franklyn agreed pleasantly, touching his glass to hers and Budge’s without prompting.

The governor gave the man a thinly veiled look of irritation, which made Abigail smile a bit more; she’d always enjoyed conversation with them simply due to the Governor’s annoyance with his person assistant. Franklyn was a little needy for others’ approval, something she’d come to enjoy giving and withholding, while the governor had a dry and dark wit that sometimes cut too sharp on the unsuspecting. Overall, Abigail had always enjoyed their company the most at these events, even if her father had not approved of it. And now, she had all of the conversation to herself, not forced to share it with her father. 

Budge began a discussion on Myerhoff’s latest sculptural acquisitions, which Franklyn managed to hijack and somehow redirect into a conversation on HBO’s ‘Game of Thrones’ and the difference between the show and the books; Abigail was not involved in that particular show, and it seemed that Budge wasn’t either, so Franklyn’s opinions meant very little to either of them. The Governor eventually gave a very acerbic comment about Franklyn not saying anything of value, which caused Franklyn’s face to turn red as he insisted he would sound very intelligent if they only watched the show. In amusement, Abigail steered the two men back to talking about the Myerhoff’s artwork, which while a dry topic, was one that the Governor was considerably more passionate about; Franklyn nervously agreed with any comment they made, obviously too intimidated to discuss the subjective world of art with his own thoughts. 

As she was commenting on the Rodin at the Baltimore Museum of Art, Franklyn gazed past them and perked up slightly. “Oh, excuse me.”

He left them before she or Budge could say anything, darting off to speak to someone he’d spotted in the crowded lounge. Abigail turned back to Budge, her own expression void of any emotion as she studied him; his eyes were following Franklyn the way a predator would watch something weak, injured, or unsuspecting. But then he glanced back to her and said, 

“You must come back to the mansion so we can continue this conversation.”

She was flattered. “I can’t.”

A small smile appeared on his lips. “I insist.”

“I really can’t. I have to go back home.” 

He sipped at his champagne glass, eyes locked with hers. “Franklyn could chaperone, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“Not worried. Could you imagine what it would look like if people thought I was involved with a man more than five years older than me?” She smiled mischievously. 

“Let alone the fact I’m so closely tied to your father’s political career. It would be _scandalous_.”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“At least allow me to get you another glass of champagne.”

She gave an apologetic smile. “I really shouldn’t.”

“If that’s what you wish.”

“I’m really not allowed alcohol off property. Not after this past summer,” she murmured. 

“Naturally.” He gave another small smile, perhaps humoured that she’d been in trouble for something so stupid. “Hors d’oeuvre?” He motioned to someone walking nearby with a tray of small treats.

He selected two toothpicks that skewered some sort of meat wrapped vegetable and offered one over to her. 

“Merci.”

“Je vous en prie,” he insisted. 

She gave a small sigh, performing for him. “Besides, my father should be arriving home in the next few hours. I doubt he’d be happy to know I stayed out socialising when I should be spending time with him.”

“You’re young—you should be allowed to socialise.”

That sounded like something Marissa would say. “Well, that may be true, but he comes first.”

He was quiet and they ate the small hors d’oeuvres; she thought they were too bland to be worthy of being served, but politely pretended that she didn’t mind. After motioning over a server to discard their toothpicks and pick up new glasses of drink, Budge said with calculated offhandedness,

“There is another performance in a few weeks, a Christmas recital. Shall I have tickets sent over?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m really that interesting to talk to?”

“Oh, yes.”

It was obvious he was working some sort of angle, but she didn’t have time to question it as Barney stepped closer and nodded his head to indicate that she should follow him; for a moment she thought it was due to what Budge had said, but instead she was told that Secret Service didn’t want to battle a crowd of people headed back to their seats, as the two minute warning of intermission end was about to be announced. Abigail entertained herself during the wait with asking Barney more questions about his interests in regards to classical music. 

Finally, they were joined by the Governor and Franklyn; Abigail had to offer an explanation to Mr Froideveaux for her sudden and momentary absence and relief filled his features. Budge commented that Franklyn had been concerned that she had _ditched_ them, which made her laugh, and Franklyn’s ears went red as he smiled the matter off. The lights of the hall dimmed once more and as Abigail turned back towards the stage, she saw someone sitting in one of the opposing seating boxes that stole her breath away. 

Abigail hadn’t noticed the other woman during the first half of the show as her attention had been more focused on the pleasure of the music and her overall good mood from having spent most of the weekend with Will. But now that she’d spotted the woman, she couldn’t keep her eyes off of her. She was…beautiful. Large dark eyes, thick brown hair, a pretty smile directed to the friend sitting beside her. There were enough features that were immediately noticeable to could never allow Abigail to mistake her for Marissa Shurr, but it didn’t stop her from staring. Nostalgia and hunger pulled tight in her stomach, and she was flooded with longing to have that opportunity once more to see her best friend livingand attainable. 

The concert came to an end and as the orchestra on the stage accepted their applause,the governor leaned in and murmured in her ear, “You’ve hardly kept your eyes on anything but her.”

Thankfully the dark of the seating box gave her the privacy she needed to hide her blush. “She looks so much like Marissa.”

“Your dead friend.”

“Yes.” 

“Your friend must have looked very lovely, then.”

Abigail allowed a small smile. “She did.”

Franklyn looked distraught he wasn’t being included in their conversation. “What are you whispering about?”

“Nothing, Franklyn.” Budge says plainly, his attention still on her. Then his eyes shifted over to her agents. “Shall I walk you to your escort, then?”

“I’d like that.”

He offered his hand to her as they stepped out of the seating box and she took it, allowing his strong fingers to support her as she descended the carpeted steps; it was customary for those attending the Myerhoff to have their photos taken by the local press and while her presence hadn’t been planned for, there were people covertly taking photos with their phones to no doubt sell. Abigail knew that the Governor would appreciate the publicity of being seen with the First Lady of the United States and luckily for him she didn’t mind being used in such a fashion. She’d not spotted Freddie Lounds tonight, though she was certain that her photo would end up in at least the Sunday edition’s society pages. But even if anything was put up about tonight on Tattle-Politics, Abigail didn’t care. She was slowly recovering her life as it belonged: her family was coming back together and she was finding new friendships. Smiling at Governor Budge and by proxy Franklyn, she thanked them both once more for the evening and allowed the Secret Service to direct her towards a side exit.

*****

Hannibal, ever a man in control of himself and his surroundings, was quiet and calm as he descended the steps of the Marine helicopter that had landed on the lawn. He saluted the Marines at the base of the steps and then made his way back into the warm White House. It was very late in the evening and he was finding himself tired. Such control of his emotions was exhausting and while he wished to see Will after his absence, he knew there was a high risk that the other man might detect his vulnerabilities and use them to his advantage; Hannibal knew that he would not hesitate to kill his Will should that have happened tonight. It was safer that they’d had the distance between them at the moment. 

Abigail, already dressed to retire for the night and fresh faced from the shower, was waiting for him in his bedroom; she was reading a book by the fireplace and it appeared that none of the agents had informed her of his arrival, as when he stepped into the room, she looked very surprised.  

“You’re home!” she cried, running to him. 

He grabbed her in a tight embrace, feeling her feet lift off the ground. “I missed you, my love.”

“I missed you, too.” Her voice was muffled by his shoulder. 

Setting her down, he cupped her face between his hands and said,

“How was our Will? Tell me everything.”

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merci— french, “thank you”  
> Je vous en prie—literal, “I beg of you”, the formal, canonical French response to “thank you”. 
> 
> +Golden Star Tea makes a sparkling tea for a nonalcoholic substitute to a formal event 
> 
> +Tony Hillerman is the author of the Joe Leaphorn / Jim Chee book series that follow Navajo Tribal Police.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place on December 1, 2013

The first day of December fell on a Sunday; Sundays were almost never for office work, dedicated entirely to chores and Mass, both of which Abigail hated immensely. However, because she and her father had missed work at the White House due to the Thanksgiving break, chores were put aside for the day. It was also World AIDS Day and after attending First Mass at seven o’clock, she and her father had gone to the Washington AIDS Partnership to meet with members of the community who had AIDS and HIV, as well as talk to the health care workers employed there. It had been the usual dry photo op that they participated in, but it was admittedly nice to get out of the house and Abigail enjoyed watching how uncomfortable people on her staff were about people with the viruses. She had no phobia of blood-borne illnesses—growing up with a very exact understanding of how to protect one’s self while butchering had left her observant of other people’s bodies, not fearful.

At the moment she was back in her office; it was a slow day and she was simply waiting for lunch time so that she could get away from her desk and stretch her legs. Her Tattle-Politics app chimed on her iPad, indicating a new article was posted and considering she had nothing else to do, she glanced down at the notification:

THANKSGIVING AFFAIR: FIRST LADY AND T…

She smirked, already imagining some photo of herself with Tobias Budge, completely without context. _‘First Lady and Tobias, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n—‘_

The article flashed onto the screen as she unlocked it and she felt her heart drop into her stomach.

THANKSGIVING AFFAIR: FIRST LADY AND THE PRESIDENT’S BEST FRIEND

A video at the top showed not Tobias, but Will. It was a very close up view, though the back kitchen window _which had no fucking curtain on it_ with telescopic lens and he had his arms around her—everything was cold suddenly as she hit play and realised this was from Thanksgiving night, when he’d hugged her and forgiven her and sure enough she was smiling and he was kissing her on the head, her lips very clearly moving in the form of the words, ‘I love you’. 

“FUCK!”

Abigail threw the iPad across the room, where it collided with the wall, causing staffers to duck and flinch, staring at her in shock. Immediately she grabbed her desk’s phone hit the button to the direct line to her aunt’s office and thankfully, the woman picked up on the first ring.

“Aunt Bee, I need—“

“Meet us in Hannibal’s office.”

Damn, it looked like her aunt had already seen the situation. Hanging up the phone, she quickly grabbed her personal phone off the corner of the desk.

“No one talk to _anyone_ , understood? No phone calls,” she ordered her staffers, then waved off Mrs Madchen who stood from her desk. “No, I need to go alone. A private meeting.”

Georgia’s brow was furrowed. “We’ll hold down the fort, Abbs.”

“That’s what you’re _paid_ to do,” she snapped before storming out with Barney by her side. 

Together, she and Barney walked down the hallway and then down the stairs to cross to the West Wing. Employees cleared the area as they walked together, picking up on her ‘Don’t-Fuck-With-Me-Right-Now’ mood, something that was definitely out of character, but necessary. 

“Barney, Freddie got pictures of me at Will’s,” she murmured when they approached the Residence’s downstairs lobby. 

“Crap,” he muttered. 

“And she’s titled it ‘Affair’. That _liar_ is making up shit about me and Will.” 

His lips quirked upward. “Well, at least we know she’s very wrong.”

“That’s not the point. Don’t make me laugh—I’m pissed.” She fought a smile, her expression trying to mimic his. “She has a video of Will kissing me on the forehead. If people don’t know the context…”

While she definitely had a very different outlook on what people made for appropriate sexual conquests, and certainly had a very different understanding of what the boundaries were between knowing someone’s body and what intimacy was, the thought of having sex with Will was…distasteful. She made a face as her mind edged away from any direct thought of coitus with him. 

“Don’t worry—your dad can fix anything,” her agent reassured her. 

When they reached the West Wing, Abigail waited with Barney in the secretarial office; she was impatient and anxious as she waited for her father to end whatever phone call he was on and she felt the growing of eyes watching her.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” she snapped at an aide, who went red in the face.

“Abigail, your mouth sounds like Marissa’s.” Her father stood in the doorway of his office, a disapproving look on his face and she immediately regretted her lack of composure. 

As she’d come expect from Agent Matthews, he didn’t take her father’s presence as a sign for dismissal and he asked, “Do you want me to…?”

She shook her head. “No. Go get lunch or something. I’ll text you.”

“Agent Matthews, remain outside the door. Have one of my secretaries bring you what you need,” her father superseded. 

“Yes, President Lecter.”

The office was uncomfortably quiet as the door shut behind Abigail; Aunt Bee was already seated at her father’s desk, glancing her over and Abigail frowned. “This is Freddie Lounds fault, not mine.” She sat down heavily on the chair to her father’s right. “I want to set her on fire.”

Occasional arsonist Aunt Bee leaned forward, apparently curious at this prospect. “I don’t.”

Her father turned to Bedelia, void of expression. “You told me you had Miss Lounds under your control, Bedelia.”

Aunt Bee flicked her hair back over her shoulder and cast a sidelong glance at Abigail. “ _You_ told me she had an important engagement.”

“She was heartsick for her other father,” he explained. 

Aunt Bee raised an eyebrow. “Heartsick. Is that the medical term?” 

Frustration filled Abigail that her aunt wasn’t taking this matter seriously. “This isn’t a game, Aunt Bee! Freddie could ruin his life!”

Bee raised an eyebrow. “And so could you and Hannibal.”

“The difference is that we already called dibs on him,” Abigail pointed out.  

There was a small pause as she and her father watched Aunt Bee click her fingernails on the surface of the desk; Aunt Bee’s eyes shifted back her father’s and Abigail noted the tension in her voice. “Now you're faced with a serious problem—you can either come forward and admit that the President of the United States is fucking some lowbrow, ill bred Louisiana trash or you can continue this charade that the First Lady is the one with the taste for southern comfort.” 

Abigail glared at her aunt—now was not the time for dramatics and accusations, and insulting Will’s upbringing wasn’t helping at all. 

Her aunt continued. “I warned you about this, Hannibal. And look where we are now.”

Abigail was unaware that Aunt Bee had said anything to her father about his relationship with Will and she looked at him, expectant for an answer. He didn’t look perturbed. 

“I’m sure the nation would understand what a mistake the article is if I simply confessed—“

Aunt Bee leaned in to interrupt, her voice suddenly taking a stern edge. “Hannibal, you haven't even been in office a full year. You won't be able to get anything accomplished and you certainly won't get reelected. What we need right now is something to throw to the wolves to lead them away from us.”

Her father’s mouth tightened for a moment, then he took his desk phone from its cradle and pressed one of the extension buttons. Abigail watched in a mixture of excitement and apprehension, wondering what he could possibly be doing to alleviate the situation. It was moments like these that she truly appreciated the vast amounts of wisdom and intelligence he possessed to fix any obstacle that came their way. 

“Bella? I have a name for you to add to the list of those being pardoned for the holiday season: Abel Gideon.” Abigail let out a shocked laugh as her aunt sat up straighter. “No, I am not joking.” Her father’s eyes met hers for a moment. “No, Jack has not discussed this with me. It was a last minute decision for clemency.”

“Hann—“ Aunt Bee started to protest. 

Abigail could feel a smile on her lips. “Oh my god.”

“I assure you it is entirely within my power.” Her father was still calm and Abigail could picture Bella Crawford sitting at her desk, tightly gripping her phone and speaking in carefully measured tones. “Yes, that will be all,” her father said and after he hung up the phone, he stated to them, “It won’t overshadow this unfortunate misunderstanding, but it should cloud the waters enough so that any sharks circling will have no choice but to hunt after what else is bleeding out.”

“Abel Gideon shot three people in the face at Thanksgiving dinner,” Aunt Bee said in a tone of forced composure.

“And he shall not be permitted around firearms when he is staying here,” her father quickly replied.

Aunt Bee’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “Staying here?”

“For the time being, Abel shall stay in the Residence. I’m sure we can find one of the many unused bedrooms to suit him. He will be fitted for an ankle monitor to prove that he is not a risk to the general public and with the amount of agents your Kade Purnell has crawling around, I doubt he’d be able to get to either Abigail or myself.” 

Abigail looked hopefully to her father, all thoughts of Tattle-Politics momentarily forgotten. “May he come work in the East Wing with me?”

“If you can find him a job suited to his qualifications.”

While Abigail’s head filled with visions of having a confidante in the office and was momentarily distracted from the crisis, her Aunt Bee was making it very clear that she wasn’t in agreement with what was happening. 

“I don’t—no, Hannibal. I won’t allow this.” Aunt Bee had the look of a cornered animal, slightly frantic. 

“Bedelia, this is the only story that could possibly compete,” her father said with calm insistence. 

Aunt Bee’s pitch rose slightly. “I don’t want him in my White House.”

“You said you had Miss Lounds under control.” He made it sound as though it was almost her fault.

Abigail’s exhale sounded almost like a laugh; wasn’t this wonderful?

Aunt Bee turned to her, looking for an ally. “Abigail, surely you don’t think this is a good idea?”

“I thought you liked Uncle Abel. You were the one who told Daddy to pick him as his lieutenant governor,” she pointed out, a malicious glee filling her.

“That was because Gideon was able to follow Hannibal’s directions and he didn’t question things. Then he had a psychotic snap, which makes him worthless in an office setting.”

“That’s not fair,” Abigail protested. “Uncle Abel is very smart and just because someone has had a mental health issue—that he’s getting treatment for—doesn’t mean he won’t be an asset to us.”

Aunt Bee rubbed at her temples. “Now is not the time for social justice, Abigail.”

“It’s always advantageous,” Abigail said wisely and received an approving nod from her father, which made her smile. 

“This feels like the beginning of a disaster, Hannibal.” 

Her father didn’t look perturbed in the slightest. “Only the truth shall set us free.”

*****

Will was at home when the shit hit the fan; he’d been in the middle of mixing Pinesol into a bucket of water so he could actually mop the floor because the grime build-up was even embarrassing for him, when Matthew had come into the kitchen, his face pale. 

“Mr Graham, there—something’s been posted online from Thanksgiving.”

Will understood that was bad, but his mind hadn’t quite caught up to what all the possibilities might be. “Shit.”

Matthew swallowed hard. “They’re saying you and the First Lady are having an affair.”

Will dropped the bottle of Pinesol into the bucket, splashing his jeans with the lukewarm water. “Oh shit.”

Will grabbed his laptop which he’d left on the kitchen table the night before and as he turned it on to see what it was that had been posted, Agent Reynolds, one of the agents who for the most part monitored the outside of the property had entered the house through the front door. 

“Mr Graham, we’re expecting an influx of reporters again. Headquarters is sending over additional agents and someone’s already called for Virginia State troopers to start directing anyone who’s loitering to leave. They filmed you through the windows.”

“ _They filmed us_?” Will felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach—his home was his sanctuary to know that someone had been watching he and Abigail as they spent a holiday together made him feel ill. Standing, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and threw it to Agent Brown. “Matthew, buy three spray cans of the shit that frosts glass. They have it down at the hardware store.”

Matthew looked at the wallet now in his hands, hesitant. “But—“

“Agent Reynolds, call the state troopers again and make sure they’re on their way.” Damnit—where was his phone? He needed to call Hannibal and find out what was going on. The two agents were still congesting the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “Get the fuck out of my way!”

“Mr Graham, we’ve got this under control,” Agent Reynolds said with a calmness that suggested it was just for show. 

“Freddie Lounds filmed me!” he shouted, angry and helpless.

The other agent was trying to appease him. “Fine. But this isn’t a good idea—“

“Fuck good ideas! People can see inside!” He turned to look at the agent who’d become his personal shadow. “Matthew, go get the glass spray!”

“Okay.”

Matthew hurried off and Will ran his hands over his face; fuck, fuck, _fuck_! How could this happen? He realised his hands were shaking and he gave a disgusted huff, hurrying up the stairs to his bedroom.

*****

Hannibal didn’t pause in his writing as he looked down at his phone, seeing that Will was the one calling. Miss Mapp’s eyes were on him, but she didn’t making any comment about answering his phone. Ignoring the call had nothing to do with any irritation he felt at Tattle-Politics for catching Will and Abigail together during Thanksgiving—yes, he thought it was incredibly foolish that Will and the Secret Service hadn’t ensured that all the windows in the house had their curtains drawn, but it was done and over and there was nothing to do to fix it. In fact, ignoring Will was nothing personal at all—it was merely part of a longterm plan that he’d put into play twenty minutes ago. 

Soon, the media would descend upon Will’s house, a plague of cameras and reporters each waiting for a chance to glimpse the man accused of an affair with the young First Lady; certainly this would continue for weeks, considering how tenacious news channels were to report a salacious story. He wondered if Will would be driven to abandon Wolf Trap for refuge at the White House. If that were to happen, Hannibal had every intention of greeting the younger man in a place public enough that general White House employees would see; depending on how frantic Will was, Hannibal planned on holding him close in a more than soothing manner, perhaps doting and looking distraught himself. There was no doubt in his mind that it would take only hours before the entirety of Washington DC knew that there was more to Hannibal’s relationship to Will, which would cause the media to redirect its focus to the both of them. Hannibal imagined standing at in the press briefing room, replying in all honesty that he was in love with WIll Graham and that they had every intention of a life together. He’d wear the blue suit with wide tan check—no, perhaps a simple twill would befit the situation better. It didn’t matter—he had at least a day before he’d need to decide. 

The phone stopped ringing, but it only took a few seconds before it began again. Hannibal continued his work on the electronic trade agreement he would be accepting between the United States and five South American nations at the beginning of next year; it wasn’t critical that he work on it at the moment, but it was enough of a mindless task that he could focus on it while still relishing the events of the day. 

He’d have to thank Miss Lounds for this development; he was still working out how she’d discovered that Abigail was at Wolf Trap. No doubt the leak within the White House who had been quiet for weeks. But that was fine—this was a leak that would certainly only point back to a very small group of people who were aware that Abigail was not to join him in Hyannis Port as the White House had publicly announced. 

Miss Mapp’s BlackBerry buzzed in her jacket pocket and she removed it. “It’s Will Graham?”

“I am busy at the moment,” Hannibal informed her, signing the changes he wanted made on the discussion points he’d speak to Congress about.

“Hello, this is—“ She paused, no doubt listening to a very angry and/or flustered Will on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, he’s busy at the moment.” She was quiet and looked up at him, biting her lower lip in embarrassment. Hannibal gave a single shake of his head and she nodded in understanding. “I’m sorry, Mr Graham. I can pass a message along to him and I’m sure he’ll respond as soon as possible.”

When the call ended, Miss Mapp sat quietly, her expression one of concern. She didn’t say anything and Hannibal was glad to see that she understood announcing the missed call or the message would simply be redundant at this point. Margot was watching him curiously; she seemed to understand that he was playing an angle and that there was more to his avoidance of speaking with his significant other.

Yes, the more Hannibal thought about it, this article was possibly the best situation to have happened in a long time.

*****

Abigail entered the East Office, head held high and anxious. Everyone was staring at her, no doubt having watched and read the article that had caused her distress. 

“Emergency staff meeting. Everyone in the conference room NOW,” she ordered, leading the way to the doors at the back of her office.

Everyone filed in behind her; most were casting suspicious glances at her, their opinions of her now changed from the sweet and innocent First Lady to untrustworthy and slutty. Once Aunt Bee had left she and her father alone in the office, her father had coached her very quickly of what she was to say to her staff and she had no doubt she could reign them back into the subservient and respectful group she deserved.

Her staffers now sat at the large conference table, she took her place at the head and carefully put all of her features into those of remorse and distress. While her father despised the thought of them pitying her, she knew that was the only way to sell this to them. 

“I’m sure by now everyone’s aware of Miss Lounds’ article. I will only say this once—I am not in any kind of romantic relationship with Will Graham.” And here was where the gamble lie. “I have had…a very hard time with Marissa’s death. I’ve tried to put on a happy face and continue on as though nothing has happened, soldier on for the sake of the office and my duties, but it’s been very hard.” She lowered her eyes and allowed her chin to tremble. “I didn’t want to face my family during Thanksgiving—I needed some time to myself and so when my dad mentioned it to Will, Will very generously offered to—“ she found her eyes tearing up as she thought about how truthfully Will had only grudgingly given her an invitation for her to stay for those two days. “He generously offered to let me stay at his house, where I could have privacy. Which you all know I get so little of.”

Georgia sympathetically placed her hand on Abigail’s shoulder and Abigail found her grateful smile in return was genuine.

“I’m sure you’ve all noticed that I’ve been acting oddly over the past few months and I apologise for any rude behaviour, but it’s been a very difficult time for me…” she trailed off, allowing her breath to hitch. When she spoke next, she forced a break in her voice. “Will just wanted to return the hospitality we’ve shown him. And I refuse to let anyone believe he’s some kind of pervert taking advantage of me.” She quickly wiped away the tears in her eyes and demanded in a firmer tone, “Understood?”

The room quickly filled with the sounds of her staff’s agreement; all of their doubt had been swept away, believing yet again that the person they worked for was simply a young woman with tender emotions, someone naïve and not realising how her actions might appear to outsiders. Excellent. Right back where she wanted them.

“Now, I’m sure that Mrs Madchen will have information for you on how to handle this situation.” She turned to look at her chief of staff, who stood.

Abigail sat down and allowed Georgia to hold her hand comfortingly; Abigail studied the odd scarring patterns on the other woman’s hand and arm, wondering if it was an old burn. The skin pulled tight like an odd glove that had been stretched tight and then wet tissue paper had been bunched up across the arm; Abigail wondered if it was incredibly sensitive or if the nerves had been dulled. Either way, it looked really gross.

Mrs Madchen coached everyone in the room about the types of comments and questions that would be made and strict ‘no fraternisation’ rule regarding socialisation with non-East and West Wing members during work and personal hours was imposed. It wasn’t nearly as harsh as some rules White House employees were forced to follow at times, and Abigail imagined what it would be like for her father to announce to the world that he loved Will and that they were family; she knew that was what he really wanted to do. 

There was about fifteen minutes of instructions to give to her employees and while she tuned most of it out, the gravity of the matter was finally starting to sink in. _‘Someone has said something untrue about me and the entire world knows,’_ she thought. ‘There are people in countries I’ve never even heard of who will be talking about me and Will’. Her stomach churned. 

As her staff was dismissed and began to file out of the room, a few patted her shoulder and all murmured reassurances to her that they would get this sorted out for her. She nodded her head in appreciation for their loyalty, as if she’d forgotten how quick they were to form a judgement about her. She stood to follow as Mrs Madchen’s phone rang and her Chief of Staff turned around to give herself privacy as she answered it. Georgia took advantage of their close proximity and put her arms around Abigail without asking.

“I’m sorry—I should have realised—“

“It’s okay,” Abigail assured her. 

“No, it’s not! I’m supposed to be here for you and I just thought—I should have known.”

“Georgia—“ She tried to pull away. “Georgia, I just need a little space.” She quickly commanded the tears back and said pitifully, “I just need a little time to heal.”

Georgia let her go immediately, her hands lingering on Abigail’s shoulders. “Of course. Anything I can do to help, just tell me and I’ll be here for you.”

Abigail nodded. “Thank you.”

Georgia smiled and before she could leave the room, Mrs Madchen set her phone on the table and looked at them both, her face deathly pale.

“Abigail—“ 

“What?”

“Your—oh my god.”

There was a kick of adrenaline in her system and she felt her throat tighten. “What is it?!”

“Your father gave a pardon to Abel Gideon,” her Chief of Staff choked out. Georgia let out a gasp.

“Oh.” Abigail sank down in one of the chairs, a hand resting on her chest. “I almost had a heart attack.”

“He’s obsessed with you,” Mrs Madchen sat down as well, and Abigail could see her hand was slightly shaking. 

“Not obsessed. He’s not a stalker. He’s a family friend,” she reminded. 

“He could try to come here for you.”

Abigail very nearly informed her that Abel would in fact be coming to work, but held her tongue, knowing that it would be so, so satisfying to see her face once it was announced Abel would _live_ here with them. 

“Secret Service won’t allow anyone into the White House without our express permission.”

“What if he wants to kill you, too?” Georgia asked.

Now Abigail was so confused. “Why would he want to kill me?”

“Probably for the same reasons he wanted to kill his wife.”

Abigail wanted to point out that Abel didn’t love his wife, and he certainly loved the Lecters, so that should be example enough to trust him. “He won’t. Besides, I have the Secret Service—I’d like to see someone try to get through them.”

She smiled at Barney, who could only give her a grim look in return. 

*****

Barricaded in her office, Bedelia grabbed her personal phone and selected the last person she’d texted that day, phoning them rather than talk via typing. It took three rings before the other woman picked up and despite being very anxious, she asked politely,

“Kade, may I have a moment of your time?”

“Make it quick.” The agent sounded busy.

Bedelia’s free hand curled into a fist then released. “Hannibal is granting a pardon to Abel Gideon with the intentions of having him at the White House.”

“Oh, fuck no,” was Kade’s reply. 

“Do something!” Bedelia hissed. 

“Don’t worry—I’ll handle this.” Kade’s tone softened. “Are you okay?”

Bedelia flipped her hair back over her shoulder, her anxiety now under control. “I don’t have time for my cousin’s dramatics. He’s doing this because of the Tattle-Politics article.”

“Do two things for me: stay in your office for now and pour yourself a glass of wine. I’ll handle this.” 

The call ended and Bedelia exhaled slowly. Sitting down hard in her office chair, legs askance as she glared at her desk lamp, she contemplated what she could do to clean up the massive fuck up her dearest family had created. 

*****

Jack wasn’t too surprised when he was intercepted by Bella in the hallway between the Oval Office and the Vice President’s office, her long and delicate hands motioning for him to head in the direction of his own office. She wasn’t showing her embarrassment and frustration in the ways others might show it—no, she wore her discomforts high in the movement of her shoulders. Once they were secluded behind the door marked his, she sat down at his desk, waiting until he sat down as well before she spoke.

“Why wasn’t I told about Abigail and Will?” Her voice was calm and the words were carefully said—she must be furious with him.

He sighed; he’d not even had the chance to pull her aside to give her the news because, as with everything, Hannibal had to complicate things. Abel Gideon being thrown into the mix had completely sidetracked him from his wife and giving her the vital information she needed to understand the situation.

“Because Abigail and Will aren’t _the_ lovebirds.” He gave just enough inflection in his tone and raised his eyebrows so that she’d understand there were larger matters at play.

She sat down and lowered her voice. “Who then?”

He leaned in and in the quietest voice possible, said, “ _Hannibal_ and Will.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Jack knew that outing someone was not considered socially acceptable (he had to watch that stale workplace video the Dems had put out three years ago), but Hannibal was no ordinary man—he was the president and his life was the Crawfords’ business. And Will’s personal business being aired was unfortunately collateral damage.

She eased back in the chair, her expression no longer angry but contemplative. “I didn’t realise he’s gay.”

It was a fair enough assumption; a bachelor with a very discrete romantic history was often target for the suspicion of homosexuality. Thankfully Hannibal had had a busy enough schedule over the years that it was a little more believable that he simply didn’t have time for a relationship. And there had been a handful women in the past that he’d been photographed with for the society pages, a few whom Hannibal had privately admitted during the campaigning process were former lovers. And for a while, Jack’s research into the matter had simply suggested that Hannibal really just didn’t care about having a romantic relationship with anyone, something Jack attributed to Hannibal’s… _hobby_. 

“I don’t think it’s that at all. I think they just gravitated to one another.” He gave a dry laugh. “I did my match making a little _too_ well.”

“This would be a disaster if anyone found out. I can’t imagine how Graham must be dealing with this—at least this place is a fortress.” She sighed. “Oh, poor Abigail. She can’t tell the truth of the matter without giving up her father’s secret. And we know that’s not an option until after the next election—hopefully after he’s out of office entirely.”

Jack grimaced because his first and largest instinct was to want his candidates’ images clean and he had no qualms if it was at the expense of someone else, including a child, but indeed, Abigail’s newfound bad reputation was going to hurt Hannibal’s. 

“How long have they…?” Bella raised an eyebrow. 

“Since July.”

“Oh, that’s not very long.” She was quiet, deep in thought. He watched her in silence; he’d always loved watching her processing obstacles and creating a plan of action—it had been one of the many things that had attracted him to her. “How are we going to fix this?”

“Hannibal’s not going to say anything,” Jack said clearly; he was very much in agreement with Bedelia on this matter—no one would vote for a gay president, regardless how openminded this country thought that it was. 

“Obviously,” Bella replied with a huff. “But that’s just going to leave Abigail bearing the brunt of this.”

Jack grimaced as he nodded his head. “I know.” 

“How do we protect her?” 

His fingers nudged a pad of light pink post-it notes closer to the mug of pens by his desk lamp. “Hannibal has told us to stand down. For now.”

“So he’s got a game plan?”

Jack certainly hoped so. “It would seem that way.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. “And he’s not told you what it is?”

“He feels he knows what’s best,” he said simply, code language for _‘He’s going to do what he wants because he’s an arrogant and narcissistic politician’_. 

She shook her head disapprovingly. “Need to get your candidate under control, Jack.”

“You know how they are. They don’t want to be told to do anything.”

“Make him. He listens to you.”

Jack didn’t believe that for a damn second. “Hannibal lets me think he listens to me.”

“When did you get so cynical?” she asked, her lips slowly forming a smile. “Don’t you make those fawn eyes at me.”

“What fawn eyes?” he asked innocently.

“Those big fawn eyes you’re making right now.” She leaned back in her chair. “How ‘bout that—the President and his assistant.”

“Best friend. Consultant.” It was so cliché, it was boring. 

Bella’s smile faded. “I’m not letting our First Lady getting thrown under the bus. She’s barely eighteen.” Frowning, she nodded her head at the phone on his desk. “You tell Hannibal that I want something to say about this other than ‘She’s not doing it’.”

He nodded. “I’ll have something for you in a few hours.”

She rose from her chair. “Sooner.”

He stood as well, walking her over to the door of his office. “I’ll try.”

She kissed his cheek and then left; Jack sat down at his desk and took a moment to centre himself. He knew he had to make this call, but that didn’t make it any easier to do. The last thing he wanted to do was lecture that asshole sitting in the Oval Office; Hannibal Lecter was a damn fine politician, but he was so ridiculously headstrong that Jack knew from the moment they met that he’d be hard-pressed to get the upper hand on him. Still, he hit the extension to the President’s private line and hoped for the best. 

“Hannibal, do you have a minute?”

*****

The cosmetic room was the only place Abigail was certain she’d have absolute privacy; she’d grown weary of the pitying looks and the constant reassurance from everyone in her office and had dismissed Georgia to other work whilst she returned to the Residence. Her father was busy and she wanted to text Will to find out if he was okay, but she was very concerned that if her phone was hacked, there would be nothing but a trail of communication between the two of them. Freddie didn’t seem above doing that. She had seated herself at one of the large makeup stations, staring at herself in the illuminated mirror; it wasn’t out of vanity—she was attempting to maintain all facial expressions as neutral while she thought about all the distressing events of the day.

There was a small knock on the door and one of the agents leaned inside. “Dr Sutcliffe is here.”

She thought for a moment and decided that there were worse people to talk to. “That’s fine.”

The agent nodded and stood aside. Sutcliffe came in a minute later; he locked the door behind him and then turned to look at her. 

“So you’re fucking him, too.”

Her first thought was ‘ _Fucking who?_ ’ and then she realised he meant Will. “Are you _serious_?” She looked him over in absolute disgust, then returned her attention back to the mirror. “You’re so _stupid_. I don’t even know why I bothered with you. You were a terrible lay, anyway. Completely _boring_.”

“So you’re not—“

“No, I’m _not_ fucking Will Graham. _Why_ would I be interested in Will?” She shook her head, glaring at him. “I’ve told you, he’s _important_ to me.”

“Can you clarify that for me please? Because you looked pretty fucking close to him in that video.”

She crossed her arms across her chest. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realise I _answered_ to you.”

“You spent a holiday with him!” He threw up his hands as he walked over to where she was sitting. 

“Will likes romance. He likes flowers and chocolates and date nights. Does that sound like something I’m _interested_ in?” She sat up a little straighter and gave him a Look. “I _asked_ you a question.”

“Not really.”

“I don’t want to be wooed by someone and I assure you, he wasn’t trying to get in my pants,” she sneered. 

“Why is he important to you?”

“He’s Daddy’s best friend. His _closest_ friend. He had no one to spend Thanksgiving with and as the First Lady, it’s my duty to make the White House a cheerful place. Do you think Daddy would be happy if his best friend wasn’t? I said that I loved him because he’s my _family_.” She pulled out her phone and turned the screen back on, hoping he would take it as a sign of disrespect that she was more interested in it than him. “You’re such an asshole. Get out of my face.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” He looked genuinely remorseful. “It just looked like…something else.”

“Okay, _we’re_ not in a relationship,” she clarified, motioning between the two of them. “You have a wife you’re separated from, and I don’t want to be tied down. This is a relationship built on the fact that neither of us have the time to find someone else to sleep with. We are co-workers who fuck. Nothing more.”

“Abigail…” His expression softened, apparently cowed into submission. “I’ve known you since you were young. And while this is a very physical thing, that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happens to you. What if he wants to take advantage of you?”

“He _doesn’t_.”

His brow furrowed. “You’re a pretty girl, Abigail.”

Ugh, was he actually _concerned_ for her? “I’m not his type.”

“Oh, is he still trying for Alana?”

“Haven’t asked him. Who he sleeps with is his business. And I wouldn’t tell you, anyway.”

“Must have been boring.” 

“Well, it wasn’t,” she snapped. She exhaled through her nose and then in a gentler tone, said, “I’m sorry. It’s just—this is bullshit.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “It happens. You know how your dad keeps getting all of those stupid stories about how he’s a faggot because he’s not married or dating.”

“You can’t say ‘faggot’,” she chided—was he _always_ this trying?

“Fine. ‘Queer’,” he amended and she scowled. 

“Well, those stories don’t matter because being gay isn’t a bad thing.” Before he could argue, she set her phone back in her jacket. “This is complete slander. Freddie Lounds is trying to call me a slut and call him a creepy disgusting pervert. All I wanted to do was make sure he didn’t have Thanksgiving alone.”

“You’re not a slut.”

“ _I_ know that.”

He leaned back against the vanity. “Everyone knows Freddie Lounds is bottom-scraper. She’s just a bitch trying to get back at your dad and your family for what happened when she got fired from her dad’s newspaper.”

“I think she just likes trouble.”

“And Hannibal and Bedelia can certainly give that to her.”

He looked about ready to suggest something, but she decided to take the lead and said, 

“Do something useful with your mouth.” 

He looked hesitant at the innuendo and she spread her legs a little wider, giving him a pointed look until he acquiesced and sank to his knees before her. She leant back in the chair, guiding him to remove her underwear and as it looped down around her right ankle, she put her leg over his shoulder. It was obvious this wasn’t something he was accustomed to doing and probably was only going through with this because she was the daughter of the President of the United States and the best lay he was going to get in a while. God, how she loved absolute power; her lips curled into a satisfied grin and he gave her a smile, misinterpreting her expression as affection. 

She tightened her fingers slightly as he started; she could always coach him through it, but he’d most likely become offended; as she was the one in the dominant position, she had the ability to guide him subtly with her hands. As much as she was starting to despise him, he was still valuable to him and if that meant she had to be his midlife crisis for a little longer, so be it. Besides, she was still confident he was one of the staffers leaking information to Lounds in the first place, and the last thing she needed was for him to feel vengeful towards her. Her hand gently pet at his hair and she stared at herself in the mirror. 

He became more adventurous and she made a low noise of gratitude that his tongue had found her clitoris. He pulled away, an eager smile as he opened his mouth, but she shook her head, placing a finger on his wet lips. 

“No talking,” she murmured. “I like the quiet.”

He nodded, leaning back in to kiss and suck at her inner thigh; gently redirecting him back to where she wanted his mouth the most, she tipped her back to stare at the ceiling, noting the elegant crown moulding. _‘I should have a fresco put up there,’_ she mused and kicked up her right leg up to rest on the vanity counter, fingers gently rubbing at Sutcliffe’s scalp. _‘Putti watching over the Civil War. American flags. Pastels.’_

She sighed and pulled one hand away from Sutcliffe’s head, reaching into her jacket’s pocket to find her BlackBerry. He was palming himself through his trousers, his enthusiasm for the activity seeming to have improved greatly. Probably thought he was going to get off.

She pulled up her father’s text messages and typed out, << _I was considering a fresco in the makeup station. Perhaps a contemporary of the civil war. I’ll sketch my idea out._ >>

She closed her eyes momentarily as she considered what it would take to get Sutcliffe to slip up and give away his true nature. Actually, she should have asked Will to do his empathy on Sutcliffe to find out if she was right about him—all she had at the moment was a gut feeling that he was a snake in the grass--

Her father replied and she looked down at her BlackBerry. << _It sounds very interesting._ >>

She slipped her phone silently back into her pocket and looked down at Sutcliffe’s greying hair.

The orgasm, as always, was faked.

*****

Freddie stood in the mostly empty parking lot of an rundown Dairy Queen and crunched the candy cane she’d been eating when she spotted the Vice President’s unmarked three car procession. The back passenger window of the centre car rolled down and revealed Bedelia Du Maurier herself. There were no greetings between them, not that Freddie was surprised—she’d published something very inflammatory that concerned two people very close to the President’s inner circle. 

“Freddie, I warned you about writing about my niece,” Du Maurier said, her face void of any emotion.

Freddie crossed her arms across her chest. “She’s having an affair with a much older man whom the President has claimed as his closest friend. That’s news. The people should know that someone like him—“

The Vice President cut her off with a wave of her hand. “This isn’t news. This is vindictiveness and lies. And even if it was true, the President’s children are always considered off limits.”

“She’s eighteen now,” Freddie pointed out. 

Oh, that had definitely been the wrong thing to say. “So she’s legal and you’re allowed to _touch_?” 

The way the Vice President’s words curled forced a spike of fear, a primal instinct that she should run while she still could. But Freddie hadn’t gotten this far in life by cowardice; she confronted anything and anyone head-on and the powerful politician was no exception. 

“I’m not doing this to spread hate against Abigail. This about what he’s doing,” Freddie reminded, uncrossing her arms so it didn’t look like she wanted to fight. 

“And I’m telling you that he’s not doing anything,” Du Maurier said crisply. 

Freddie smirked. “Really? Then tell me what’s going on and I’ll get this whole thing cleared up.”

“Freddie.” The Vice President shook her head, a nightmare smile on her lips. “I think you are smart, but you are young. And smart girls grow into smart women. And in order for smart girls like you to grow up into smart women, they have to be taught lessons.”

*****

Hardball With Chris Matthews, December 1 2013 episode, 7:17PM EST

“I, for one, am angry because we were told by the White House that the First Lady and Graham weren’t anything and now we find out they are.” _Matthews doesn’t have a scowl on his face, but there is very clear ire in his tone. He’s looking at the two people sitting across from him at the half circle desk, two longtime show favourites who will agree with him for the most part while providing an ‘alternative’ opinion._

 _Joan Walsh is sitting nearest to him and gives a sardonic smile._ “Chris, did you actually think that the White House would admit that the underage teenage daughter of the acting First Lady, and also the daughter of the President, is seeing a man twenty years older than her?”

“She’s not underage anymore,” _David Corn reminds, almost apologetic that he has to state that the young woman subject of their discussion can make her own legal decisions._

 _Matthews scowls briefly._ “I just don’t like Phyllis Crawford lying to my face. She’s—no, listen to me—she’s the best Press Secretary the White House has ever had and I just have to question the integrity of anything she says from now on.”

“She has to say whatever the President wants her to say and you know he’s not going to let her say that his daughter is involved with a man old enough to be her father,” _Corn points out._

 _Walsh holds up her hands slightly as though she’s trying to defend her point of view without saying it outright._ “I don’t know if you’ve watched the video closely—I’m not an expert—but it looks like she’s saying ‘I love you’. But I’m not a lip-reader.”

 _Corn lets out a laugh, turning to her._ “Yeah, I thought that, too!”

“We have to get Freddie Lounds on the show.” _Matthews glances at the main camera._ “We have invited Ms Lounds to come on the show, but her office hasn’t responded yet. And call me paranoid, but I think that the White House is trying to distract by announcing that Abel Gideon is to be released.” _He turns his attention back to the two panelists._ “Right?”

 _This is earns a snort of disgust from Corn and a tutting from Walsh. Matthews turns back to look at the main camera again, prepared to explain what it is exactly he’s referencing._ “Now for those of you who don’t know, Abel Gideon was President Lecter’s former Lieutenant Governor when he was first elected to Maryland’s governorship. During their second year in office, Gideon _murdered_ his wife and in-laws in Maryland’s Governor’s Mansion during Thanksgiving dinner and he was found unfit to stand trial—declared _insane_ and was locked up in Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Which—I might add—is the same place that Abigail Lecter went on her birthday, where we got all those photo ops of her serving the lunch trays that would be distributed to the inmates. Can we get those pictures up on the screen? The ones where she’s serving food?”

 _Walsh has a slight smile on her face still, something she’s trained herself to do whenever she’s on camera._ “I want to have faith it’s not a conspiracy to distract from the First Lady’s scandal, but to pardon a man who committed triple homicide? I’m trying to think back in all the years of pardons and clemency, if there’s ever been someone who compares to this.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s the only one,” Matthews agreed as the photos of the First Lady serving food almost a month previous appeared up on the monitor. 

“The President is allowing a murderer back out on the streets. If he’s doing this just to distract from what’s going on with his daughter and his former assistant, then he should be ashamed. Pardoning is to give someone a second chance or grant justice when the law has come down too hard.” _Walsh’s smile has disappeared and she sweeps her bangs back out of her eyes. She’s always been passionate about women getting into politics and has been praising the young First Lady left and right. And now to have all this potential go down the drain because of some pervert? She calms herself so she doesn’t look like an ‘Angry Woman’ and explains,_ “His daughter is the victim, which is really unfortunate. If they’d just let Graham admit his guilt, then it wouldn’t be a big deal—they wouldn’t have to do a stunt like this to save Abigail’s reputation. And to be fair, we don’t know for sure—“

“Oh, come on,” _Matthews says with a laugh; he doesn’t sound happy, and honestly, with all the evidence, how could anyone not see that Abigail Lecter and Will Graham have been caught in the centre of something scandalous and salacious._

“We don’t! Innocent until proven guilty!” _Corn states, knowing how this is starting to make him look like an apologist for men leching on barely legal teens and he prays that there aren’t complaints to the station or to his magazine where he’s editor—he makes a mental note to aggressively go after Graham’s character in the article he’ll be posting later this evening so that he won’t look like he’s siding with him._

“All right, all right, all right—I am speculating. We don’t know the facts for sure yet. This could be something harmless.” _Matthews gives a smile to the camera that indicates he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying._

_The title of the segment is named ‘Lady and the Tramp’, showing a cropped together image of Abigail in an elegant dress and Graham unshaven and scowling. Perhaps it’s a bit unfair to paint the situation in this light, but then again, the situation is disgusting and everyone’s too happy to condemn someone for being disgusting. Graham was never nice to the media, never personable, and he’s paying for it now._

*****

That evening Bedelia waited patiently in her office, knowing her cousin would eventually show his face; she was drinking a well-aged whiskey out of cut crystal that Bella Crawford had gifted her office upon inauguration. And soon enough, long after she’d sent Alana and the rest of her aides home, there was a small knock on her office door and she called out for him to enter. 

Hannibal sat beside her on the small settee, accepting the glass she handed him. She didn’t look at him, keeping her attention on the fire in the fireplace; there were remains of the settee’s matching ottoman burning and she was sure his excellent nose had picked up the smell of burning cushion or whatever that would inform him of her small transgressions. Not that he should be allowed to blame her for resorting to such a youthful outlet for her building stress. The ottoman was too small for comfortable use anyway.

“Why are you allowing Abel Gideon back into your life?” she asked when the silence began to bore her. “I don’t see the reasoning. I know a distraction is necessary, but this is overkill.”

“Abel is a clever man. There is no point in keeping him locked away in a basement in Maryland.”

“He said that _she_ suggested he stop being family with people who made him unhappy and so he thought it was best to ‘stop being family’ with a shotgun.” It wasn’t necessary to say Abigail by name. 

“He can be a hobby for her. She can use this opportunity to learn how to cultivate positive qualities and habits she would like to see in another.”

“A pet.” The word had a flavour as bitter as an orange peel. 

He nodded slightly. “She needs a challenge more complex than one a dog can provide.”

“And when he is convinced that she is telling him to kill someone for her office to advance on a project she is working on? What then?”

“You are overreacting.”

“Am I? Abel Gideon murdered three people because he thought she was telling him to kill his wife and her parents. That is not the thinking of a rational man.”

“He’s on medication now.”

“Benjamin was on medication,” she said pointedly.

Hannibal took another sip from his glass, then said emotionlessly, “I shall make sure that Abel receives every pill that has been prescribed to him.”

If Bedelia had a heart to break, she imagined that she might have felt it snap in half at the implication that he’d not seen to her husband receiving the help he needed. She’d always known he’d caused the circumstances that led up to her late husband’s death. 

“And if your daughter’s new dog decides it’s prone to biting?” She raised an eyebrow. 

“I shall give him a muzzle.”

“And if a muzzle doesn’t stop him from biting?”

He raised an eyebrow to mirror her. “Why then, my dear cousin, I believe I shall see to it that he is put down.” 

She eased; Abel Gideon’s death would be nothing but a benefit if she could see to it becoming reality. Hannibal took her silence as an opportunity to lean in and kiss her gently on the cheek. 

“You fret over the smallest things,” he murmured, his tone warm. 

There were no small matters in the White House, but nevertheless, she gave him a small smile and a request. “Forgive me.”

Sitting back against the settee, his voice was fond and patronising. “Of course. It’s your nature to have concerns about your family.” 

“I’ve told Kade to set up roadblocks,” she noted.

Conversationally, he asked, “How is Agent Purnell?” 

“She is working very hard to tread water in the ocean we have created.”

His lips twitched in amusement. “I certainly hope you are trying to find a boat for her, then.”

“You keep sinking them or giving them to your playmates,” she chided, though couldn’t hide her fondness for the other woman and admitted, “But she is a strong swimmer.”

“She must be to navigate these dark waters.” He set his glass down and stood from the settee, brushing the wrinkles out of his suit. “I must see to Abigail. She is quite upset.”

She nodded, whether acknowledgement or permission of his departure she wasn’t sure. “Goodnight, Hannibal.”

“Goodnight, Bedelia.” 

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +World AIDS Day is December First
> 
> +‘Putti’ are the little childlike angels that many people mistakenly call ‘cherubs’. 
> 
> And thank you to everyone who's left comments and kudos, and everyone who's reading <3


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during December 2 to 3, 2013.

While it was made very clear that no one was to inform him of his impending release before his hack of a lawyer spoke to him, word of his future reached Abel regardless. A sense of awe had filled him as he’d sat across from the man who’d done a terrible job defending him in court nine years previous, hearing the words ‘presidential pardon’ and ‘clemency’ and ‘you’ll be a free man, Abel’. 

Over the years he’d created a list of what he wanted to do when he was released. Some of those things were ridiculous, impractical, and simply for the sake of doing, but now that he was being faced with the reality that he would be out of this hellhole in nine days, so long as nothing got in the way, he saw that decisions had to be made with care and consideration. 

There was an exercise room on the main floor of the BSHCI; Abel’s hands were cuffed behind his back, but his legs were unshackled which was a rare luxury he was afforded only once a week when he was in the exercise room. There was a large tether attached to his cuffs on a ceiling track that allowed him walk around the track that had been painted on the concrete floor in yellow. Words of warning had been painted there as well—“DON’T CROSS THE YELLOW LINE”, a warning to anyone who wasn’t a patient there. A guard sat on an elevated platform very much like a hunting stand, a rifle resting on his lap as he watched Abel. Abel walked briskly around the ring, trying to burn off all the adrenaline coursing through his veins; if he’d ever felt pent up, it was now. But his mind was hazy and trying to separate all the facts from the rumours he’d heard guards and nurses muttering about was complicated. 

He still wasn’t sure why Abigail hadn’t told him personally that it was to happen. Perhaps she’d wanted it to be a surprise. Or perhaps for legal reasons only his lawyer could inform him. Or perhaps she’d not been sure if he’d be released and didn’t want to get his hopes up? Regardless, he would thank her for doing this for him. 

His lawyer had explained that the White House and the First Family would be hosting him upon his release, that there would still be various conditions for his release: an ankle monitoring bracelet—“The Secret Service is insisting upon it, Mr Gideon.”—routine drug testing—“I think everyone who’s at the White House has to do that.”—weekly sessions with a psychiatrist of his choice—“The President said he wants to make sure you’re adjusting to life on the outside okay.”—and that he’d be expected to accept the job the White House would be offering to him—“It’s to keep your mind from atrophying”. 

But his mind was a million miles away now as he stretched his legs and felt a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. He’d like a hot bath at some point. Watch the news. He’d like to write with a ballpoint pen and read a magazine with staples binding it together—prisoners weren’t allowed those things. He’d want dessert for every meal. And no more bologna or prepackaged ham slices ever again. No powdered eggs, either. A soda might be nice. 

His sins absolved, his soul washed clean, the Lecter speciality. 

He wanted shoes with actual shoelaces. He wanted to stop taking the dreadful medication they gave him here. He wanted a room with a window, so that he could look outside whenever he wanted, feel the sun on his face from time to time. He’d like to take a walk without being shackled and monitored on a strict time frame by a man with a rifle. 

As he was led back to his cell, he found himself unable to find the usual quips he’d try to rile the guards up with, remaining quiet and cooperative with them. They commented on his unusual good behaviour and he’d simply murmured,

“All good politicians know when to shut up.”

He was sedated regardless of his quietude and reclined back on his cot, eyes hardly open; the sheet on the mattress was cool and a little rough against his cheek. He watched as the nurse left the cell and after ten minutes two guards entered to remove his cuffs. Or was that how it happened? He couldn’t tell—his mind was swimming in a haze and all he wanted to think about was the White House and sitting behind a desk Doing Important Things.

His body was exhausted from the exercise and chemically induced lethargy. He imagined climbing into the bed in the Lincoln Bedroom, where the sheets would be white, fresh, and smooth. And would likely smell of the nice kind of drier sheets; he’d never gotten used to the harsh disinfectants used on their cots.

He smiled at the photo of Abigail on the wall. Soon he’d see her. And Hannibal. But also Abigail. Perhaps he could take her under his wing once more—teach her how to be a proper politician…

*****

Monday morning was a real life version of a nightmare Will had once had about being a celebrity. Oh, he was no longer the man that people vaguely recognised if they weren’t up on their politics—no, now he was pariah, an outcast sinner whom everyone in the country knew about. There’d been nothing prohibiting him from coming to work today and considering he was innocent, he felt as though it would be cowardly to stay home, where he’d be trapped inside the house. Everyone loved a scandal, especially when it was happening in the White House and this story had hit every marker that piqued the public’s interests. 

Hannibal still hadn’t called him back.

As Will walked to his lecture hall, he could feel the eyes of everyone on him like the drips of hot candle wax on bare skin—even when he’d first started working at the White House the staring hadn’t been this bad. There were a few encouraging catcalls from a few male students passing in the hallway, a lot of disgusted looks from fellow faculty members and not-so-subtle accusations of ‘pervert’ hissed in his direction from the students who thought he was one of _those_ professors.

He didn’t regret coming to the university today, but he wished more than anything they’d come earlier when they’d used a service entrance to avoid the majority of the school’s populace. When he reached the general safety of the lecture hall, Molly Foster was already at their shared presentation desk, setting up her laptop. 

“Mr Graham,” she said curtly.

Damnit, if there’d been one person he’d hoped would have any sort of faith in him, it was Molly. “Oh, so you’ve read the story, too.”

“Kind of hard not to.” She turned to look at him and the hurt in her eyes stung. “She’s barely eighteen, Will.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m not sleeping with her!” His voice had taken on a tone of hysteria. 

He liked Molly _so_ much and maybe in a different life, he’d have entertained the idea of creating something more with her—god knew he could see how much she wanted him and with the two times he’d stupidly kissed her to prove something to himself and to Hannibal, he’d felt that she’d been allowing herself to fall for him. And now she’d dashed any hopes she’d had about him—not to mention completely fucked up her ideas of his character—and she was not a woman who allowed herself to be made a fool of.

She rounded on him, her eyes narrowed and her tone venomous. “You looked pretty cozy—“

“Abigail is like a daughter to me. I would never do anything so _disgusting_ as betray that relationship between the two of us.” His hands were shaking. “I don’t—I don’t need this right now!”

“Professor Graham.”

Will looked up at the entrance of the lecture hall to see the school’s dean standing in the doorway and Will felt a sinking in his stomach as the man walked inside. 

“The Board doesn’t know if we’re supposed to suspend you. She’s not a matriculated student.” Will could feel that Molly’s presence was making it more awkward, but he lacked the sympathy to care.

“I am not sleeping with Abigail Lecter,” Will repeated. “She’s a _child_.”

“No complaints have been filed. All there is speculation,” the Dean continued. 

“I do not have any kind of inappropriate relationship with Abigail. I am a family friend.” Will insisted.

“We’re getting a lot of calls.”

Will grit his jaw, his hands in fists. “Is there something you want to say?”

The Dean straightened his shoulders and attempted to look Will in the eyes. “You’re not suspended today. But I will not let you drag down the integrity of this school, of the professors we hire here. Foster will cover your lectures today—I don’t need this class becoming a circus.”

Will grabbed the printout he’d made Saturday, the one in the file that was clamped to the flash drive he stored all his powerpoints on and flung them on the desk. “The McConnell lecture. I’ll be in my office.”

*****

Abigail sat at her desk, looking out the window; her stomach was a tangle of tight knots and she felt about ready to throw up. Everyone was staring at her and even though she’d managed to convince everyone in her office that she wasn’t in a relationship with Will, it was all anyone was talking about. _‘I share the highest body count for serial killing with my father—I am one of the most feared names to think of on the East Coast—and I’m letting people walk all over me? What the hell is going on? I don’t deserve this!’_

Georgia approached her quietly and Abigail flinched as she was pulled out of her thoughts. “Abigail, MSNBC has sent over a formal apology and a statement that Mr Bashir will not be returning to the network.”

She nodded, finding herself quiet and not wishing to draw attention to herself. She was overwhelmed. “That’s fine. Do we need to send some sort of response to them?”

“I’ll ask my mom.” Her assistant paused. “Um, I can deal with this for you if you want. So you don’t have to focus on it.”

“Please.” Before Georgia could turn away, Abigail asked softly, “What are they going to say about Will and I?”

Georgia lowered her voice. “They’re putting all the blame on him. That he’s taking advantage of you.”

She nodded and returned her focus out the window.

*****

Hannibal had heard about Will’s disastrous day at work and feeling it was no longer appropriate to continue avoiding the pitiful reaches for comfort, he answered his phone as he was turning down the bed as he readied himself for sleep.

“Will.” He smiled at the soft exhale on the end of the line. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?” Will sounded sober and frantic. 

“I apologise that it’s caused you distress, darling, but it was completely necessary—“

“I am completely on my own here, don’t give me that bullshit! Everyone thinks I’m guilty and if the court of public opinion has anything to say about it, they’re going to get me fired from GWU and probably sued! Not only is Abigail young, but she’s my student! GWU won’t back me!”

“Shh, my sweet Will. There is no need to be so upset,” Hannibal assured, wanting to placate the other man. 

But Will’s voice then dropped to a growl. “If you had anything—“

“I assure you, the last thing I want is this,” Hannibal interjected. 

Will paused and then in an analytical voice said, “You can’t stand that Abigail’s getting the attention.”

“I am not angry at her for something out of our control,” Hannibal said neutrally as he stepped out of his slippers. 

“No, you want to admit to it publicly that you’re the one with me.”

“Naturally. I am the one who is in love with you after all. But there is little I can do at the moment—we must simply be patient and wait for the opportunity to strike.”

“You want to out us?” Will sounded perplexed that Hannibal was willing to go through with it, though his tone had a slightly sentimental edge to it now. 

Hannibal looked down at the copy of Khalil Gibran that Will had given him for his birthday and he offered it the faintest of smiles. “I have wanted it for a long time, Will. I am not ashamed of you.”

Will was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, well, you’re still possibly the worst I could ever do.”

“Your manners, Will,” Hannibal reminded. 

“I would rather face anything else than people thinking I’m taking advantage of Abigail,” the younger man said mournfully and Hannibal nodded as though he was there.

“I know, Will.”

*****

Feeling like a masochist, Will arrived at GWU the following day; this time he was early enough that he only had to deal with the asshole reporters. During breakfast he’d received an email from the school board stating that he had permission to come to work;again he wasn’t authorised to lecture, but because he wasn’t on administrative leave (yet), he would be “allowed” to sit in his office to grade term papers and prepare the ten-paged two hour finals for each of his classes.

And now he was trying to figure out how to deal with not one, but four agents who were assigned to stay with him at all times; none of them seemed particularly pleased with the arrangement—Matthew was upset that he wasn’t able to do the job by himself and the other agents didn’t want to cut their protective detail teeth by watching over someone who wasn’t liked by the public. It simply wasn’t glamourous to them. 

Will had placed a sign on the door of his office that stated that he was **not** seeing any students for the time being. Matthew and an Agent Thompson were sitting in the ugly rickety chairs parked in the frontmost corners of the office, while the other two were stationed outside to stand guard over the door.

It didn’t matter that he had a ridiculous amount of work to complete before the approaching end of semester—he was unable to focus on anything, knowing that he was being stalked by cameras and that every single person around him now was scrutinising his every move. 

Will had kept the ring Hannibal had given him, keeping it tucked safely in his wallet. But now—overwhelmed and alone—he took it out to look at it. It was a simple ring, something that anyone would pass over in a pawn shop, a small section worn free of gold revealing the sterling silver band underneath. An economical ring, practical and sturdy, hidden by the classic appeal of gold. 

He imagined that Edvardas Lecter had worn away the gold on the band by worrying it with his thumb; he brushed his own against the side. What would the late Edvardas Lecter have thought of Will? Would he have thought his son well matched with an anti-social Southern boy who valued privacy and related to dogs better than humans? Would he even have accepted that Hannibal was in a relationship with another man? Will knew that _his_ father certainly wouldn’t have. 

Will slipped the ring onto his right hand’s ring finger; it was stupid, but the small symbol of Hannibal was comforting, something to focus on while he dealt with the outside world.He wasn’t going to hide, though. He wasn’t a coward. If someone asked who’d given him the ring, he’d tell them that it had been Hannibal, that the President of the United States had given him his father’s wedding ring. Let’s see if the rumours of inappropriateness stuck after _that_. 

*****

The issue of Bon Appetit was waiting on Abigail’s desk that morning via special delivery; she couldn’t bear to look at it—no doubt this was a best seller based on everyone wanting to see if Will had been present, if there was some sort of clue that she was a slut or a stupid teenager besotted by an older man. Georgia and her mother had flipped through the magazine to evaluate the article and she caught glimpses of it; she already knew that these photos would be used in the day’s news as the preferred images of who she was supposed to be in the public eye. Everything about the photos seemed so fake, so pretentious. She hated seeing everyone’s smiling faces, and she was definitely going to refuse to see them during Christmas—she could picture them standing there and judging her. Judging Will.

She’d already been ignoring calls from her various family members since the stupid story on Tattle-Politics broke, ignoring the voice messages collecting; she couldn’t bring herself to delete them, though. Her father would review them later for her.

*****

The media had found the exit they were using and had crowded into them so that he was led by one agent with Matthew coming up behind him, both guiding him to the waiting SUV. Will covered his face by holding his satchel in front of his face; it was stupid to give them this kind of shot, he knew that, but he didn’t want to see his angry face on the internet later. Every asshole reporter was shouting a barrage of questions at him, all intended to provoke reactions from him, none of them good.

“Mr Graham! Could we get a word—“

“How long have you and Abigail Lecter—“

“Are you in love with the First Lady?”

No, he’d had enough—the first thing they were going to do was head straight to the White House and— 

“ _Fuck_!” 

He could feel Matthew stumble behind him, his hand pressing Will hard between the shoulder blade as he fought to keep himself upright. They stumbled as a group into the waiting Secret Service vehicle, all of them cursing as the SUV finally pulled away from the curb.

“Are you okay?” Will asked, straightening up into his seat, trying to orient himself as their vehicle took an unnecessarily sharp turn around a corner.

“I think I twisted my ankle.” Matthew waved his hand to the agent driving. “Let’s get him home first.”

Will wanted to get Matthew to a hospital. “We need—

But his senior agent shook his head and smiled. “It’s okay, Mr Graham. I’ll live.”

“Let me look at it.”

“It’s not necessary,” Matthew insisted, though he didn’t resist as Will had him turn in his seat and pulled his leg up into his lap. 

“Yeah, sprained,” he said after evaluating the ankle. “I’m so sorry about this.”

Matthew smiled at him as he pulled his leg away. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Let me get one of the ice packs out of the first aid kit, help with the swelling,” Agent Thompson said, reaching underneath the back row to get out the plastic container that held all the first aid equipment. 

“Thanks,” Matthew said as he placed the ice pack against his ankle.

"I'm calling Hannibal. This is becoming a circus," Will muttered as he pulled out his cellphone.

*****

 

 


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place on Wednesday, December 4, 2013

On the fourth day of the year’s last month, Will awoke to the sound of his cellphone ringing on the nightstand. Groping around in the dark, he found it and brought it to his ear. 

“Good morning, Mr Graham.”

“Matthew?” he croaked out. 

“Sorry to call you so early. I wanted to go over the plan for the day, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah…” Will closed his eyes and relaxed once more. “Go ahead.”

“We’ve been authorised to shut off the service route on the north side of the building. DCPD will be assisting us—”

“How’s your ankle?” Will interrupted, guilt hitting him hard.  

“It’s sprained. One of the camera men pushed into me and I rolled it pretty good.” Matthew let out a good natured laugh. “Part of the greatest security team on earth and I was taken down by the sidewalk.”

“I feel like shit that you’re hurt.”

“Part of the job. I get hurt so you don’t have to.” Matthew’s voice was soft, and Will knew it was from the unrequited feelings he felt for Will. 

Which wasn’t fair to Matthew at all. Will sighed; he’d have to sit down with agent and make it clear that despite all other indicators, he’d only ever truly love Hannibal, the man who’d stolen his heart and mind, the man who’d offered him everything his heart desired. Maybe he could suggest to Matthew that he should have a different agent as the senior of his detail. God, this was so awkward—like preparing for a breakup. 

“What are you doing today?” Will asked hesitantly. 

“I have to do a follow up with the agency doctors and a debriefing. I’ll be monitoring your team from the office, then I’ll head home at lunch.”

“I only have to stay ’til noon.” He cleared his throat. “I could order pizza and you could come back here. Head home when the evening detail comes to switch out.”

“No, I can’t—

“No, I insist. This happened because of me.” Will knew it was best to deal with this now, than later on when Matthew might have read too much into things.

“Oh, Mr Graham, I really couldn’t—“

“No, no arguing.” Will felt horrible that Matthew sounded so excited. “Okay, then when my lectures are over, we’ll pick you up at the Treasury Department—“

“I’ll be at the doctor’s then.”

“Okay, then at the doctor’s and we’ll all head back here.”

“Sounds good.” Matthew gave a nervous laugh. “Let me get back to telling you about the plan for today, though…”

*****

“Martin Bashir is resigning.”

Abigail thought the matter was laughable compared to what was happening to her now, but at least she had the satisfaction of knowing that he wouldn’t be able to cover the situation in a public forum anymore. “Well…good. He was an asshole.”

Georgia gave a hurried nod, probably afraid that her mother might see her agreeing with Abigail’s rude assessment. “You okay?”

She gave a small smile to her assistant. “I’m fine, Georgia. Thank you.”

“Joy Reid will be hosting his programme until January, from what we’ve been told. Then they’ll change to schedule and have his show completely taken off and time slot reassigned.” Georgia produced a file and handed it over. “She’s going to issue an apology on air, as well. Here’s a copy of it that MSNBC sent over.” 

Abigail opened it, but didn’t really read what was on the paper. “I don’t think our offices will be working much with their network for a while.”

“That’s what my mom said.”

“I wanted to go to Will’s class today,” Abigail said morosely as she looked out the window.

*****

“This is the exit we usually use to take the First Lady out of the building. Should have started doing this two days ago—could’a spared Agent Brown a twisted ankle,” Agent Thompson commented.

Will was stood behind one agent with two following up behind him; his satchel was held in both hands, anticipatory for anyone who might try to bombard him with a camera and because the strap had ripped on the side when he’d got it caught on the file cabinet in his office. While he wasn’t looking forward to the discussion he’d need to have with Matthew later, he couldn’t bear to stay in this building a moment longer—it had been decided that on Friday he’d formally meet with the panel chosen to head the investigation of his supposed affair with Abigail. 

Though it had pushed him into make a decision about going over to the White House this evening and formulating a plan that would get him and Abigail out of this mess; he refused to sit back and allow this to happen to the two of them. And he wanted to find out what the hell Hannibal had been thinking by pardoning Abel Gideon.

The agent ahead of Will opened the door to the exit and the four stepped out; Will grimaced at the strong smell of garbage from the dumpsters lining the alley way. Two police officers were walking down the alley way and the agent ahead of him stopped short, hand on his weapon.

“What’s going on? Why aren’t you in your car?” the agent called out.

The taller cop gave an apologetic smile that Will could see even from this distance. “Sorry, our radio’s all jammed up—couldn’t get in contact with you—“

“Wanted to make sure that everything was okay.” The other cop nodded his head at the building. 

One of the agents behind Will muttered, “Mine’s working fine—“ 

There were silencers on the cops’ weapons, which meant the guns madeclean, muted zipping noises as the bullets left the barrels and penetrated the skulls of the Secret Service agents who’d dropped their guard at the sight of law enforcement uniforms. The third agent who’d been in front of Will hadn’t even managed to remove the gun from his holster before he was shot point blank in the face, crumpling at Will’s feet. 

He didn't have time to even shout, his mind in overdrive and reading the men around him, indifferent to death and excited for action. The police men rushed at him and a heavy baton struck him on the head and as the world became murky, he felt himself being dragged through the service alley to the waiting van that he hadn’t even noticed until now.

“My briefcase,” he mumbled, his mind grasping on all three early term papers that he'd collected that day. He couldn't leave those students’ papers—he had a responsibility to their grades—

“Get him in!”

“I can’t—my briefcase—“ he jerked towards the back door again and was hit a second time in the head, the world immediately sinking into the bottom of the sea where everything was dark and silent.

*****

Matthew sat in one of the waiting room chairs; these types of chairs were the kind that inmates in upstate New York prison wood shops made—ugly, angular, and poorly cushioned with rough material that had a disgusting amount of stains on the weft. He tapped a finger against the hard armrest, his leg twitching at a different and erratic pace. Something felt wrong. Matthew wasn’t a superstitious man and didn’t like the way some agents acted as though the mystical and divine could actually be used as a gauge on the job, but deep in his gut he felt as though something had fallen out of sync. 

Wishing to alleviate his doubts, he pulled out his phone and called headquarters. “Hi, this is Agent U-4587, Matthew Brown. Colour of the day is ‘mojave turquoise’. I’m supposed to be picked up by Will Graham’s detail for a ride back to Wolf Trap and they are five minutes late. Could you contact them on the radio, see if they’re caught up in traffic?”

Dispatch came through a little tinny. “No problem. I’ll call you back when I get ahold of them.”

“Thanks.”

But there was no call back and after another agonising five minutes, he could hear sirens in the distance. His stomach clenched and he started to stand before his ankle protested and he sank back into his seat, craning his neck for any further clues as to what was going on. Unable to see anything, he hit the speed dial to Mr Graham’s phone. 

*****

Barney listened to his earpiece calmly, though there was a small tendril of dread that began to creep through his veins. The President was apprising him personally of the current situation and he glanced to the First Lady, who was at her desk, talking on the phone while her Chief of Staff took notes. The President’s calm voice registered as very surreal to Barney and standing from his seat, he quietly acknowledged his orders and walked over quickly to the desk his charge sat at.

“Abigail, come with me,” he said quietly.

He took the phone out of her hand and handed it to Mrs Madchen. Abigail obediently allowed herself to be taken from her office, quiet and fearful. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked curiously.

He ignored the question and kept his hand firmly on her shoulder as he marched her down the emptied hall. “I’m going to stay with you, okay?”

Her eyes became wide and she started to hesitate walking with him. “What—did something happen to Daddy?”

“No, we’re going to see him right now. But I need you to be a good girl and stay quiet until we get back to the Residence, understand?” 

He’d been told by President Lecter that specific endearment would cause absolute compliance and sure enough, she nodded her head and moved a bit closer to him. _Good girl_. It was something people said to young women and it wasn’t until the President had told him that those exact words would get obedience that he’d ever contemplated that it was such an unfair thing to say. Just behave and everything will be okay. 

They were passing agents in the hallways who were moving frantically about to prepare themselves for the metaphorical storm that was about to hit; the First Lady observed them in interest and it occurred to him that she probably assumed this was nothing more than a lockdown due to a terrorist attack—something upsetting, but didn’t affect her directly. When they reached the Residence, President Lecter stood in the very formal, very impersonal Yellow Room, the perfect place to deliver scarring information. 

“Abigail, something has happened,” he said calmly.  

“What’s—what’s going on?” And then there was a look of horrified understanding that something must have happened to Will Graham and she grasped onto his arm. “No, nothing's happened to Will. I—I would have felt it!” 

“Will has been taken, Abigail,” her father explained solemnly.

“No! No, you don’t—“

“His agents were found dead thirty minutes ago.”

She gave a sharp, pained noise and then a sob; her hand was still gripping onto him and she seemed tethered in place by him. 

As he’d always been, President Lecter continued in a calm and authoritative manner. “If make yourself presentable, you may attend the meeting that’s about to happen.”

She was nodding, her breath shaking. “I can—okay.”

“Barney, you see her to the Situation Room, please.”

“Yes, Mr President.” He tugged at her slightly. “Come on, Abigail.”

He manouvered her to leave the room and she collapsed against him; as he supported her towards her room, she fought a losing battle against her tears. 

“Shhh,” he comforted. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

The other agents in the hall were watching her, looking distraught that their favourite was in pain and a few moved as though they wanted to reach out to her, but he shook his head and got her into her bedroom. She broke away from him to go towards her bathroom and he sighed as he listened to her begin crying in ernest. This past week had been a lot for her—reunited with Will for the Thanksgiving holiday, the article Freddie Lounds had written, and now this. He realised how stupid it had been to say that everything would be ‘okay’, because unless they rescued Graham in the next twenty-four hours, chances were that they wouldn’t get him back alive. And this might be a distraction to something much larger, which was alarming. 

He looked over at the east wall, which had a large replica print of La Grande Odalisque; he had taken an elective course on art appreciation during college and he’d held an interest in the classics ever since. Vermeer’s work had always been his favourite, which had made for interesting conversation between himself and the President, describing his desire to one day see each painting in person. He looked closer at the painting, frowning slightly; as a senior agent, he’d been permitted to see the crime scene photos of Clarice Starling’s death and it dawned on him that her body had been posed in the same way the woman in the print was positioned. He wondered if her killer had done it intentionally. Perhaps they should be looking for someone who understood art.

Abigail emerged from the bathroom before he could dwell on the matter any longer and he doubted she was aware that she was shaking. “I don’t know what to wear.”

Jesus, like she was preparing to attend a funeral. “You’re okay with what you have on. Let’s get your face washed up a bit, okay?”

She nodded.

“I didn’t even know something had happened to him.” Her voice sounded so small.

Never in his younger days when he was training for war, for devastation, for worst case scenarios did he ever think he’d have to provide care for someone’s emotional state, which was somehow much harder than he’d expected.  

“Don’t think about that right now. Do you want to attend the meeting?” he asked as he found her washcloth and ran it under faucet.

Her brow furrowed. “I have to.”

He nodded; he understood. “I’ll stay with you, okay?”

“Okay.”

She took the washcloth from him and held it to her face, breathing into it as he rubbed her shoulders. She began to cry again and moved closer, until he was holding her. It took her a moment to settle herself again, but once she’d dried off her face and gave him an appreciative nod. He took the washcloth from her and She stared at herself in the mirror a moment, looking a little confused at her reflection, then searched across her neatly organised vanity to select a mascara, which she began to apply. 

“This stuff is waterproof,” she mumbled. 

Barney had never seen a creature so meek and helpless, one whose world was imploding and standing in the eyes of the manmade storm; of course someone would be upset if a family member was kidnapped, but she was looking at losing her family for a second time. Not wanting her to become stared at, he opted to take her down to the basement via the hidden passageways. She held his hand tightly and he could hear her still choking back tears. 

When they reached the basement, they were greeted by the President; Jimmy Price gave a very grim look to Barney, no doubt knowing more about the situation, which cause his own stomach to churn. The President pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the tears on Abigail’s face.

“You will stop crying. You will be strong,” he instructed quietly.  

“I’m a Lecter,” she whispered, her voice raw.

“You’re a Lecter,” he agreed. 

Barney felt an impossible sadness that these two had such an innate gift to repress their emotions when the time called for it; the President’s eyes were darting around but he looked otherwise unaffected, while Abigail was swallowing hard and forcing a smile onto her lips. During times of his own crisis, he might be able to hold a levelheadedness that others lacked, but he was never able to put a smile on his face. No one should ever have to learn how to smile in the face of their own despair.

“Now you must call your office and give them directions.”

Abigail nodded and pulled out her BlackBerry out of her trouser’s pocket. Hitting a short combination of buttons connected her almost instantly to someone in the East Wing and she said quietly, 

“Georgia, I won’t be returning to work today. Have my schedule for the rest of the week cleared. Tell your mom the office is officially operating at Crisis Two management level.”

She ended the call without waiting for a response and her father took her hand. Ardelia Mapp was watching everything with concern.

Jimmy stepped to the side. “Mr President—they’re ready.” 

Abigail turned to Barney and gave an appreciative smile before they quietly entered the Situation Room as a group. 

*****

“That’s right. You’re not as tough as me. That’s why I guard the President of the United States and you own a bookstore.”

Beverly’s younger brother was hunched over, retching as his eyes watered from the raw garlic cloves and wasabi they were chewing as a feat of strength. It was one of the many juvenile habits they were reduced to during the holiday season, trying to out do one another through ridiculous stunts they’d done since they were kids. Beverly had a high tolerance to anything spicy and had powered through her garlic cloves; her second youngest brother had already bailed due to indigestion from the garlic, losing that round hard. 

“My throat is scalding. I gotta throw this up,” he wheezed, his voice raspy.

“You’re weak. You’re embarrassing me,” she gloated

“Stop doing that in my kitchen,” her dad snapped at them as he stirred a pot of soup.

She smirked as her brother leaned over the kitchen’s trashcan and fished her buzzing phone out of her pocket. The numbers on the screen indicated only one person and she took a step towards the kitchen doorway. “Hold on, it’s my boss.”

Her brother nodded as he spit out chunks of garlic and her father glared at her. She doubted Jimmy was giving a ‘Happy Chanukah’ call, but probably something along the lines of ‘Hey, where did you put the security report from last week?’ which was fine and she prepared herself for walking him through her filing system yet again. “Hey, Jim—“

The line made a funny clicking noise, the telltale sign that it was secure and thusly an Important Phone Call. 

“You need to come back to the White House. Will’s been kidnapped.” There was absolutely no humour in his voice and she stood at attention.

“What’s—“

The line made another clicking noise in the middle of the first syllable of the sentence. “Everything’s going into lockdown and you’re wanted back.”

She was processing what she was being told, but damn, if she couldn’t help but interject her own confusion. “Oh god, is—“

“His whole protective detail is dead.”

She dropped the garlic cloves left in her hand onto the counter and pushed her way out of the kitchen, ignoring the concerned stares following her. “I’m on my way. Twenty minutes?”

“I already have an escort on his way to your parents’. Colour of the day is ‘mojave turquoise’.” Another double click.

“‘Kay.” The line went dead and she grabbed her purse from the bench by the front door and her Go Bag that she took everywhere with her, quickly fishing out her holster and sidearm. 

“Hey, I’m sorry—got to go,” she told her family as they watched her.

“Everything okay, Bev?” her mom asked, staring at the gun with fear.

She smiled at her siblings and their children, and her parents, slipping on a lightweight coat. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Is everything okay?” her sister-in-law asked, ignoring the jenga tower that had collapsed on the coffee table. 

“Bye! Love you!” She gave a quick wave to her dad. “Dinner looks great!”

“Beverly, what’s—“

The door shut behind her and sure enough there was a police cruiser with lights on, pulling over to the curb of the street. She hurried over, holding out her badge and shield, and as he rolled down the window, she informed him, 

“Agent Beverly Katz, United States Secret Service.”

“Hop in.” The door made a noise from the lock flipping and she jumped in as he introduced himself. “Officer Mike Stone.”

“Nice to meet you.” Beverly was already fishing around in her purse to find a business card; it was always a nice gesture to the PD to give them someone directly to call and had proved to be useful in a handful of cases over the past decade.

“Everything okay?” he asked. 

“Nothing you need to warn your family about.” Everyone nowadays worried about terrorist attacks and she didn’t want to give him any cause for alarm. 

“Got it.” He swerved around a Range Rover that refused to move for them. “Shit, some people just won’t pull over.”

She smirked, locating her card and palmed it. “Welcome to America.” 

“I’ve never, uh, had to assist the Secret Service before. Anything I might need to call into my office about?” He sounded eager, probably hoping that this could fulfill some pipe dream of being offered a job at the White House.  

“Not yet. 

“Is it a crisis?”

She gave a shrug. “You’re the one escorting me to the White House.”

“True.” “Get out of the fucking road! Jesus!”

Beverly knew that one of her superpowers was the the ability to distract. “You know, you might want to sign up for the tactical driving course in Pennsylvania next year. It’s awesome.”

“Yeah? Who’s it with?”

“Lasorsa & Associates—a former Secret Service agent teaches it. And they give law enforcement discounts. I could call ‘em up and get your name on the list, if you want,” she offered. 

“Yeah. Thanks.”

She grabbed onto the oh-shit bar as he drove up on a curb to go around traffic that had come to a stop. Her phone rang once more and she saw it was dispatch, no doubt tracing where she was, but calling to confirm.

“I’m about six minutes away,” she said as she answered, feeling the car bounce as it went back to pavement again. 

“Roger that. We’ll get on the traffic grid and turn all cross street traffic to red light.”

“Roger that. Thanks.”

“So, will it be on the news later?” he asked curiously as she ended the call 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“It’s really bad.” He started to open his mouth and she cut him off, giving him a large smile. “Look, you seem like a good guy, but I can’t talk about it. The White House will release a press statement later—pothole!—and it’ll tell you everything you need to know from a civilian angle. I’m sure by tomorrow morning we’ll be working with PD, too, so you won’t be in the dark for long.” 

“Shit—“ He hit the brakes as they were suddenly faced with a crowd of people walking from the direction of the White House.

“It’s protocol, Stone. Relax.”

He began to blip his siren to get them to clear a path for him, which thankfully, they did. “Where are all these people coming from?”

“They’ve removed them from the perimeter fence. Pennsylvania Ave will be closed off to everyone, so slow down—we’ll have to alert them we’re coming.” She dialed the front gate’s number. “This is Agent Katz, mojave turquoise, approaching in DCPD cruiser—uh, 98765.”

“Roger that. Agent Frank Davis will be waiting to take you in.”

“Roger that.”

Large cement pylons were rising out of the ground to close off the road and as Stone slowed down so that he wouldn’t hit those either, she unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Okay, this is my stop.” He stopped the car and she handed over her business card. “Keep your ear to the ground. You hear _anything_ , you call me directly? Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

*****

Ardelia sat quietly in the corner of the room directly by the President’s right side, watching the situation unfold. Never in her life did she expect that she’d have to listen to the details of a crisis where someone had been kidnapped, and four police officers and four Secret Service agents had been killed. The Vice President’s assistant, Alana Bloom, had already had to excuse herself due to crying, and Ardelia recalled being told that Bloom and Graham had been close; the Vice President herself looked quite tense and her fingers tapped on the surface of the table anxiously as they all stared at the graphic images of the police officers who’d been shot point blank in their cruisers at both ends of the service route that had been blocked off. 

The First Lady’s eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying, just breathing in careful measured intervals. The President’s jaw was tense and he held his daughter’s hand tightly under the table. This was the President’s significant other that was missing, which raised about a thousand new horrifying possibilities. Was this a simple ‘kidnap for ransom’ scenario? Or was this something more drastic? Did someone know the truth of who Will Graham was?

The agent who’d been in the driver’s seat of the Secret Service vehicle had been shot once in the face and twice in the chest, slumped over the steering wheel of the still idling SUV. Ardelia recognised one of the agents as the woman who accidentally bumped into her at the canteen register the week before. She’d been dropped into the dumpster first, her eyes wide and unseeing as she rest atop the bags of trash from the university. Ardelia had been forced to look away as she sought to kind a kleenex in her pocket. She’d just seen that woman alive, had told her ‘it’s nothing’ with a smile when Agent Thompson had apologised. Dabbing at her eyes with the tissue, she kept her gaze on her knees so she wouldn’t have to look at photos of the other agents who’d been thrown in on top of the other agent’s body. 

Someone was saying that the Vice President needed to be moved to a secure facility, perhaps Heart Mountain in Wyoming or Hawthorne in Nevada. Someone was saying that Navy SEALs were prepared for any sort of retaliation that was needed. Someone was saying that they hadn’t found enough blood to indicate that Will Graham was dead—

Oh god, none of these men in here knew about the President’s relationship with Graham. It was a secret that only the Secret Service Uniformed Division had been made aware of, that the Vice President and Chief of Staff knew. All of these security advisors were acting under the assumption that Will Graham was just a normal person who’d been taken—

The room was quiet and something touched her shoulder. She flinched and looked up to see everyone was staring at her; the President pulled his hand back.

“Miss Mapp, why don’t you return to the Oval Office and see to the tasks outlined in your employee manual, the section covering ‘Crisis Procedure, Part III’.”

“Sorry, I just—“ she stopped talking, embarrassed and overwhelmed.

But he gave a small nod to her. “You are excused, Miss Mapp.”

“Yes, sir.”

She stood and hurried from the Situation Room, where the door was shut behind her and clicked loudly as the magnetic lock sealed the room shut. 

*****

The news had been delivered to the East Wing roughly forty-five minutes after Georgia had received the alarming call from Abigail after Agent Matthews had taken her away. Everyone in the office had been in absolute dumb shock. Beth had grabbed her arm hard enough to leave bruises as her mom announced to everyone what had happened. Georgia had never known anyone who was kidnapped before; once, when she was five or six, her mom had explained to her the dangers of talking to strangers, so she’d grown up with an abstract worry of the danger of being taken by someone, but until today it had been a small fear in the back of her mind that reminded her to carry mace and not park in dark sections of parking structures. But now she _did_ know someone who’d been taken and to be honest, she really had no idea how to process all this information. 

Georgia had excused herself to the First Lady’s desk; while she knew it wasn’t proper for her to sit there, Abigail wouldn’t be returning for the day and since they were operating under a crisis mode, there was little she could do. In her right hand were her prayer beads and while she was trying to concentrate on the ‘remover of difficulties’ prayer, her eyes were drawn out the picturesque windows that overlooked the rose garden. There were three Secret Service agents talking to one another, all dressed in black SWAT gear; they looked intimidating and out of place amidst the gentle plants. She hated seeing the White House presenting itself in a hostile manner, even though she understood that it was for everyone’s safety; she simply preferred when they projected unity for all of mankind. 

“Everything okay?”

She looked up at her mom. “Sorry. I just—I needed to pray.” Her mom knelt down in front of her and Georgia whispered, “I’m so worried about him. Will’s my friend…I would never want anything to happen to him.”

“Oh, honey.” Her mom took her hands into her own. “President Lecter will make sure he’s rescued before we even know it.” Her mom closed her eyes and Georgia did the same, bowing her head until it rest against her mother’s. “Keep him safe also, O my God, by the power of Thine immeasurable majesty, from all that Thou abhorrest. Thou art, verily, his Lord and the Lord of all worlds.”

Georgia couldn’t smile, but found that the tightness in her chest was starting to unfurl. 

*****

The task force for the situation was created, with a respected member of the Uniformed Division flying in from the Miami office to head it up. A man in his early forties perhaps, late thirties possibly marched into the Secret Service’s basement office space, now cramped with dozens of agents who’d been called back from personal time off; he had a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, partially hidden by his jacket sleeve. 

During his flight from Florida, he’d been relieved to learn that Jimmy Price was the head of the President’s protective detail and the senior daytime agent assigned to him; he’d attended training with Jimmy and had graduated in the same class, so he had absolute faith and confidence that he’d be working alongside another agent who wouldn’t put his ego before a matter of national security.

He spotted the other man and they approached one another, shaking hands tightly.

“Jimmy.” 

“Saul, good to see you, man.” Jimmy gestured to a desk. “Already cleared off my desk for you.”

“Thank you. I’ll be meeting with the President in fifteen minutes. Have him ready.”

“Got it.” Jimmy left and Saul rest the still-attached briefcase on the top of the desk. 

“If I can have everyone’s attention,” he announced loudly, which garnered silence and all eyes on him. “My name is Saul Perlman. I am in charge of the recovery of Will Graham. Some of you will be assigned to work with me, but if you’re not and you feel you should be, talk to me and I’ll see if I need you.” He glanced around the room. “We lost four agents today and DC lost four of it’s police officers. I know that this is a very tense time for everyone, but let’s show some discipline and not jump to any conclusions about anything, follow the facts, and we’ll get the bastards that did this.” There was clapping and cheering for a moment and then he was able to continue. “I am not in charge of the investigation of the deaths of Agent Thompson, Agent Douglas, Agent Das, and Agent Martinez. Agent Summer Wrekk, who is one of the White House liaisons between the Secret Service and Washington PD will be heading up that. We’re handing these matters separately because they are two different crimes that happened during the same incident. The murders of our agents had already happened, while the crime of Graham’s kidnapping is still considered on-going.” He drew up his shoulders a little broader, needing to look as authoritative as possible. “We’re going to have a lot of late nights until both matters are solved. Everyone should cancel any plans they had for the time being—there will be no more time off for anyone. But we have resources available to us from the CIA, the FBI, and local law enforcement as well as our own groups to call upon, so I’m sure we can get this taken care of soon.” He tapped his hand resting on the briefcase. “My desk will be here when I’m not out in the field. No one should hesitate to talk to me—we’re on the same team. Nothing is too stupid or too small—I’d rather get one hundred leads that are worthless than miss one crucial clue because someone didn’t bother to tell me.” 

*****

Hannibal waited in the Oval Office on one of the cream coloured couches; he’d told Abigail to go burn off some energy in the gym on the third floor and then to have the kitchens make her something to eat. He loved her, but she was emotional and he needed her out of his way while he tried to piece together what exactly had happened this afternoon. 

He stood when his office door opened and a man with a briefcase in hand entered the room. 

“Secret Service Agent Saul Perlman. I’ll be in charge of the investigation regarding Mr Graham’s kidnapping.”

Hannibal shook his hand, noting that the briefcase appeared to be handcuffed to the agent. “It is unfortunate we must meet under these circumstances, Agent Perlman.”

“Agreed. I’m setting up a command post in the Roosevelt Room, if that’s all right with you?”

Hannibal gave a small nod of permission. “Would you care to sit down?”

“Thank you.” 

Hannibal watched in interest as the agent removed a small key from around his neck and unlocked the handcuff from his wrist; the briefcase was set down on the coffee table between them, the key was placed back around his neck, and then Perlman began twist the dials on the number lock keeping the briefcase closed.

“I have recovered twelve hostages in the past fifteen years, with a 100% success rate. And unlike this case, I was able to keep all of those situations our of the news,” Perlman told him. “I feel confident that with the proper media exposure and with our best agents out in the field, we’ll be able to recover Mr Graham, too. Someone, somewhere has seen something.”

“Now, I know this is a very hard time for you and I shall try not to make this any more painful than it already is.” Perlman glanced up to give him a reassuring smile.

“My appreciation.”

Perlman removed a yellow legal notepad and a pen. “In the average kidnapping case, we look at the victim’s family first and rule them out as suspects. Aside from yourself and Abigail, there are only a few members of Graham’s biological family living, all on his mother’s side.”

Hannibal nearly frowned. “He has not had contact with any family member in years.”

But the agent merely nodded. “There’s always the possibility one might think he’s worth some money and try to get a ransom. Now, given that the people who took Mr Graham are both highly skilled and incredibly dangerous. If there is a ransom involved, they’ll probably be asking for the Lecter fortune and not a million dollars. From the information I’ve had gathered so far on Graham’s remaining family, they’re really not the type. You have a large list of enemies and we’ll be investigating them all. I have to ask this next thing.” 

“Very well.”

“Is it possible that Mr Graham did this? I understand he is still being treated for encephalitis and he was experiencing hallucinations that other agents reported left him aggressive. I’m not a medical expert, but I do have an evaluation here that states he might have pulled the knife on you if he was still suffering.”

Hannibal shook his head once. “Will found his illness to be extremely discomforting—he would not subject himself to it a second time. He has been routinely taking his medication to the best of my knowledge. I am certain if you retrieve the hair from his pillowcase, you will be able to test it for the medication to prove he has his encephalitis under control.”

“Good to know. I have a team over there right now gathering evidence. We’ll be sure to test for that.” Perlman began to write on the notepad. “We are considering the chance that there was a leak from somewhere in the White House about Graham’s schedule and the agents on his detail. All possible leads will be investigated.”

“Do you believe an agent is responsible for the leak?” That would be an interesting possibility; perhaps they were the same person leaking information to Lounds. 

“Anything is possible at this point. I’m not going to take any chances.” Perlman avoided looking at him for a moment. “I’m pulling Verger off your detail.”

Hannibal did frown. “If she is the leak, it would indicate to her that we know. It is more valuable to have her here, than reassigned.”

Perlman looked contemplative and then nodded. “She can’t be told anything from now on, then.”

“Understood.” Hannibal felt relief that she wouldn’t be sent away; Margot had great potential to be useful to him and he couldn’t afford to lose her now. 

“We’ve got eyes and ears on her brother’s place at the moment.”

“This isn’t Mason’s style,” Hannibal assured, which caused Perlman to raise an eyebrow, obviously wanting an explanation for his reasoning. “He would target Abigail or myself directly. The people closest to me would never be used for collateral—he’d much rather see my suffering for himself.”

“If Verger was aware that you were intimate with Mr Graham?” Perlman challenged. 

Hannibal would be very disappointed if this was Mason’s own work. “Mason still wouldn’t kidnap. He would convince Will it was imperative that he come to him. From there he would blackmail him or otherwise. Will would know that if he ever found himself in such a position, he could come to me and I would take care of it.”

“Does Mr Graham believe you would harm someone to protect him?”

“He knows I would kill for him,” Hannibal said plainly.

Perlman wrote more down on his legal pad and Hannibal wondered if he’d made a mistake stating the truth so bluntly. But he wasn’t worried—surely if this were to be held against him in the future, he’d be able to say he’d been under duress at the time or that it had been a misunderstanding. But from the agent’s expression, he didn’t seem troubled by the confession. 

“Does Mr Graham have any special pet names for you?”

The question caught Hannibal off-guard. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“And you for him?”

“I’ve been known to refer to him as ‘my dear Will’ and ‘sweet boy’.” Hannibal wasn’t embarrassed to admit that and he wondered if Will would attribute that to his ‘exhibitionist’ interests. 

“So if Will were to call you anything that might sound like a casual nickname to the unsuspecting person, it wouldn’t be mean anything intimate to you?”

Hannibal studied the other man. “Has there been contact?”

Perlman shook his head. “No. But it’s not unusual for kidnappers to make their victims read something into the telephone.” 

“I would be very confident that I could identify any anomaly in the way he speaks. He is a very learned man and as such, he would be able to insert any hint or clue into his speech that I would be able to notice—perhaps a reference to a past conversation or a book. I am certain that he is counting on it. I would also know if he was reciting something scripted.”

“Loved ones are usually the only people who can pick up on those things. You’re the only ones who know him well enough.” Perlman continued writing as he asked his next question. “Is Mr Graham willing to die for you? Would he martyr himself to keep his kidnappers from getting access to you?”

Hannibal decided that honesty would serve best. “He would die for Abigail.”

“But not you?”

Hannibal laced his fingers together and rest them over his knee. “Not for wanting to. If he thought that I would be able to protect Abigail in his absence, he would. Will would be able to take physical violence against him and wouldn’t beg for it to end. I’m sure if something stricter—a blow torch or the threat of amputation—he might feed false information. But I doubt he was taken for information. I have far more valuable staff members to take, ones whom are not guarded by agents. I believe that this is retaliation against either myself or my administration.”

“I agree, but we don’t know for sure yet.” Perlman paused for a moment to write more on the legal notepad and then he asked, “Do you and Mr Graham have any form of code phrases that only the two of you would know?”

“Many.”

“And if you hear one, you won’t play hero and keep it to yourself?”

“I will inform you of anything I hear that might indicate assistance from his end,” Hannibal promised. 

“How far would you go to get Mr Graham back?”

This piqued Hannibal’s interest. “Are you asking where I would draw the line between ‘recovery’ and ‘revenge’?”

“Yes.”

“All is fair in love and war. And they have declared war.”

“Would you negotiate for the release of a hostage?”

“I would not give information of use.” Hannibal gave a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Anything I give them would be considered a very short term, high interest loan.”

“I could live with that. Nothing that could ever be public.”

“Naturally.” Hannibal’s left hand traced the outline of his knee. “I am in love with Mr Graham. Consider this not as though a White House affair’s kidnapping, but First Spouse; we are intended to be married.”

At this, Saul looked up at him, eyes widening. “You’ve proposed to him?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“November 18th.”

“Who knows?”

“Abigail and yourself.” 

“Shit.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he wrote more notes frantically. “Sorry. This is…” He grimaced. “Very, very bad should it become public.”

“I do not intend for anyone else to know.”

“Okay…” Perlman tapped his finger against his notepad, studying the words as he was quiet. Hannibal watched him unblinking, wondering what the man’s plan would be in light of the new information. “Okay. This information won’t leave this room. I don’t know who our leak is and god forbid they’re an agent.”

“I need to ask you some very personal and embarrassing questions. They’re strictly between you and I. They will never leave this space.” Perlman circled his pen around to indicate the small area they were sitting in.

Hannibal didn’t like the thought of having to answer them, even if he was lying. “What will the answers be used for?”

“The people who’ve taken Mr Graham are organised and disciplined. They will use information against you and against him. It’s important I have all possible information to work with so I will know what sort of split second decisions to make. I need to have as close a profile of how Mr Graham might react under stress.”

“I am not sure I want a written record of this to exist,” Hannibal admitted, eyeing the notepad.

“It’s short hand, no one knows what languages,” Perlman assured.

Hannibal considered for a moment that this man had no ill intentions towards himself or his family and that the option for revenge was always present, should the agent reveal anything personal to anyone. 

“Very well. Let us begin.”

*****

As Hannibal saw Agent Perlman out of the Oval Office, fingers brushed across his palm and instinctively he closed his hand around the small folded piece of paper that had been slipped to him. He didn’t turn to look at the person who had touched him and as Margot walked past him into the office, so nonchalant, he wondered for a brief moment if he’d been wrong, that Mason was in fact responsible and this was how contact was being made. He passed the paper into his suit pocket as Jack approached him; his Chief of Staff ushered him back inside, speaking of phone calls that had to be made to agents’ families and spouses, that there many staffers afraid to go home lest they be taken as well. As Hannibal sat down at his desk, he waited patiently until he could pull the small note out of his pocket once more. Finally, Jack stood up to start pacing. 

He glanced down at the piece of paper. 

_Is it Mason?_

Looking back up, Hannibal waited until Margot made eye contact with him once more and shook his head slightly. Her entire body relax in relief and she nodded once in appreciation for the information, then returned her attention to scanning the room. He tucked the small piece of paper back in his suit pocket, knowing that it would be wise to save it in the event he needed a copy of her writing or her fingerprints. 

*****

Hannibal pet Abigail’s head, which rest on his right thigh; they were sitting in the family room adjoined to his bedroom. He’d found her lying on the couch and he came to bask in her agony. He could feel her breath on his knee, but she was not crying; he’d refused them both permission to cry over the situation and in return, he played the mournful ‘Lacrimosa’ to weep for them.

“I was to meet him this evening. I was going to convince him that it might be appropriate for him to consider spending the Christmas holiday with us,” he told her. 

“In Hyannis Port?”

“Yes. Just the three of us.”

They both fell silent and he continued to soothingly run his fingers across her head; he had started to wonder if he could relax her enough that she might fall asleep like this when a silhouette darkened the doorway.

“Hannibal?”

He looked up. “Yes, Jack.”

“It’s time.”

“Time for what?” Abigail glanced up, lifting herself just enough so that he could stand.

He retrieved his jacket from the back of one of the armchairs. “I am to call Will’s mother.”

She sat up. “Why?”

He put the jacket on as he explained, “It is customary for the President to contact the parents of any American citizen who is being held hostage.”

In the dark of the room, Abigail was nothing more than a shadow pooled on the couch, her eyes reflecting the light of the doorway. Her fury was boiling and sour. “ _We_ are his family.”

“I know that, my love. However, the rest of the country does not, and as such, we are required to play the roles expected of us.”

“But she doesn’t deserve a phone call. She abandoned him. She’s not even part of his life.”

“I know.” 

“It’s not right.”

“I know.” Before she could argue further, he told her firmly, “Stay here.”

He was aware that much of her anger stemmed from the feeling of helplessness that she couldn’t participate in Will’s rescue, that as the First Lady and an eighteen year old, there was little she support to offer that was of use. But anger was healthy for her to feel and he was interested to see how she was exorcise it from herself.

“Is she okay?” Jack asked as they stepped off the elevator and made their way to the West Wing. 

“No.”

“I can find someone for her to talk to. Get her some help.”

Hannibal did not want anyone talking to her. “Abigail is a very private person. There are secrets she keeps even from me.”

“But maybe she’d be okay talking to a professional about this. We have a list of people who are very discreet.” When Hannibal said nothing in reply, Jack seemed to understand that his comments weren’t important to Hannibal. “Well, Bella and I are always here for her. And you.”

“Thank you, Jack. Your thoughts are appreciated.”

Once alone in the Oval Office, Hannibal sat down at his desk. In the bottom left hand drawer was a file on the woman he’d have the White House switchboard call out to; removing the file, he opened it up and placed it on his desk. Over the spring, Hannibal had looked into the whereabouts of Will’s mother and discovered that she was startlingly similar to her estranged son; a Ms Helen Jusko, who lived in a very small township in Texas.

Where Abigail wished to find a villain, was simply an old woman with maladjusted social tendencies. She owned a ranch, was married to a man named Bill Stang, and spent a great deal of her time painting with watercolours and oil paints. She was regarded as a recluse, though made occasional appearance at local art shows. He found her art rather pedestrian.

There was no doubt that Will took after her genes and Hannibal appraised the photo in the file; it had been taken off an art gallery’s facebook page, so the quality wasn’t very good, but the resemblance between she and Will was striking. She had her son’s troubled eyes and her hair was loose curls that were mostly grey; Hannibal was able to discern enough difference in their faces to trace what Will had received from his father. There were also a few minute scars on her nose and cheeks to indicate she’d had small skin cancers removed. He wondered if Will was like Abigail and needed to kill the parent who held so much control over his sense of worth. 

Picking up the phone off his desk, he spoke to the operator at the switchboard. “I am ready to call Ms Jusko.”

“Just a moment, Mr President.”

He knew that there was a small announcement to the receiving party that they were to stay on the line for an important message from the President and he wondered if Will’s mother would panic that she was being contacted. But she answered and he spoke first.

“Hello, Ms Jusko. This is President Hannibal Lecter, calling on behalf of the First Family regarding your son, Mr Will Graham.”

“Oh.” She sounded breathless and uncomfortable. “Uh, hello…Mr President.”

“How are you this evening?” he inquired. 

“I’m well. And yourself?”

“I’ve had better days.” How he wished he could be there to watch her reactions. “I know you aren’t close to Will, but I felt obligated to notify you of the situation.”

“Oh, so that _was_ him. I…I thought it was him when I saw the news. He looks so much like my brother. All that curly hair.” Her voice changed and she sounded guilt-ridden. “Is there a ransom? I can take out a second mortgage on my house.”

“No, there is no cash ransom,” Hannibal told her. 

“Is, uh…has there been any luck finding him?”

Hannibal felt a small smile at how awkward she was. “We are doing all that we can.”

“Good.” She was hesitant. “I don’t know what he’s told you about me…”

“He’s informed me of his past,” Hannibal said neutrally.

“You must think I’m a monster.”

“Not at all. I work with many whom are far worse than you.” And honestly, that was true. 

“That’s very generous of you.” She didn’t sound so convinced. “I don’t deserve to ask, but is, uh…what’s he like? Will.”

“He is the smartest man I know. He’s very generous with his cerebral gifts and for that I shall always be grateful. I consider him to be my closest friend and ally.”

“He’s lucky to have you then.”

“I suspect you are curious if he’s guilty of what the media has accused of. He is not.” 

“Oh, that’s…I wasn’t sure how you must feel if…well, I’m glad that he’s not.” She sounded very relieved. “Does he have someone in his life?”

“I don’t know if he wishes for me to discuss that with anyone.”

“Right, of course. Sorry.” She was quiet again and Hannibal waited patiently for her to speak. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I will.” 

“I appreciate your offer, Ms Jusko.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“You are welcome. Have a good evening, Ms Jusko.”

“You, too. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

He placed the phone back in the cradle and quietly contemplated how he would like to handle the evening, before getting up and leaving the office. Back in the Residence, he found Abigail sitting where he’d left her, hesitation written all over her face. 

“Well?” she asked softly.

He leaned in and kindly asked. “How would you like an ice cream sundae?”

“I’d like that,” she replied cautiously, withdrawing slightly before asking, “Are you going to treat me like a child tonight?”

He hadn’t intended to, no, but as with everything in life, there were always interesting developments to explore and while he was certain that was what she needed of him in that moment, he still asked, “Would you like me to?”

“Yes, please.”

While it would be interesting to say ‘no’, he could also feel his instinct to care for Mischa and the comfort of controlling a human’s life to his every whim. 

“Go put on your pyjamas, then. We shall have our dessert in the kitchen.”

Ah, to be a child again. He’d had a harder time finding comfort and solace in people when he’d been younger, but Lady Murasaki had come close. When Abigail returned, she was in the light grey set he’d bought her last christmas; as she sat down at the counter, he set her bowl of ice cream down in front of her. 

“What toppings would you like?

“Walnuts, please.” She still wasn’t smiling.

“Would you liked whipped cream and a hot caramel sauce as well?”

“Yes, please.”

The caramel sauce was heating on the stove already and he went to the fridge to remove the container of whipped cream he’d made the night before for their dessert.

“You’ve had a long day,” he said gently as he moved past her. 

He pressed a kiss to her temple and she sighed. 

“I just want today to never have happened,” she replied.

“I know, darling.”

He made their sundaes and they ate them in relative silence; when they were finished, he escorted her back to her room. While she brushed her teeth in her bathroom, he carefully prepared her bed for her. As a child, this had been part of his evening bedtime ritual for her, though now she no longer had her horrible Barbie dolls to sit on her nightstand. Instead, sleeping pills would take their place. 

When she emerged from the bathroom, she climbed into bed and asked softly, “Will you tell me a story?” 

Hannibal sat on the edge of the bed. “Yes. What would you like to hear?”

“The one about the butcher.”

He nodded and began to tell her of the time he’d decided to kill the man who’d been so unspeakably rude to his Lady Murasaki, carefully embellishing the details of the plan he’d made to carry out the execution, remembering to describe the swords and the scenery with great care. While she was obviously tired, her mind was still restless and he could see she was having a hard time falling asleep. When he finished the story, he gently touched the side of her head.

“In the morning I expect you to be an adult,” he informed her. 

“Okay,” she agreed.

He smoothed her hair away from her face. “Aren’t you lucky I can grant you such a reprieve from responsibilities?” 

“Yes.” She avoided his eyes. “If Will is killed, will you promise to come in and smother me in my sleep so I won’t have to know?”

“You’re being dramatic, Abigail. I think you need to get some rest.”

He set down the sleeping pills he’d brought along and placed them on the saucer on her nightstand that held a glass of water. Obediently, she took them and drank the water down; settling back into the sheets and blankets, she looked up at him. 

“I can’t handle knowing he’s scared and alone.

“You can and you will,” he said as he pulled her blankets up to tuck her in.

“If he dies, can we destroy everything?”

“With pleasure. We shall start with Capitol Hill. I’m sure a little gasoline would go a long way in such an old structure.” He kissed her forehead and stood from the bed. “Goodnight, Abigail.”

“Goodnight. I love you.”

 He turned off the light and left the room, shutting the door quietly. In the Center Hallway, stood Bedelia with her agents surrounding her as she studied a painting of Yellowstone; there was also an usher standing by patiently with an overnight bag.

“Bedelia, how are you?”

She turned around and nodded to him. “I’m well. I shall be living under your hospitality for the night.”

“Shall I show you to the Queen’s room?”

“I’ll be taking up residence in the Lincoln Bedroom, if you don’t mind.”

“Naturally. I shall inform the ushers to see to your needs.”

“Thank you.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Goodnight, Bedelia.”

She gave him her smallest of smiles. “Goodnight, Hannibal.” 

*****

When Will awoke, he was curled into a loose fetal position. 

 _‘Is this a body bag?’_ he asked himself as he stirred. _‘Am I dead?’_

He tried to pull his hands forward to rub at his face, but his hands wouldn’t move and alarmed, he realised his wrists were bound. He tugged a little harder, fingers feeling around and he discovered plastic.

Zipties.

Fuck, there had been briefings during security drills about how to escape zipties and Will hadn’t paid attention either time, too distracted with thoughts of Hannibal: the first time about how uptight the President was, the second time about how Hannibal looked in bed in the morning. And now he was bound and couldn’t save himself.

 _‘Fucking Hannibal—this is his fault,’_ he thought to himself though the humour fell very flat. 

He pulled at the zipties, only succeeding in tightening them and digging into his skin. He was fighting now, squirming and writhing to get himself righted or free or _anything_. But then he stilled, knowing that if anyone was watching, he shouldn’t give them any indication that he was alive and well. Besides, remaining still would permit him to conserve precious energy. 

 _‘Turn observation skills to maximum,’_ he thought to himself in a surprisingly amused manner.

He was in a container of some sort: padded, which was a plus, but also hard-sided, which meant he probably couldn’t kick his way out. But there was more than that. There was air ventilation and it was a comfortable temperature. And actually, the padding was thick enough that his body was comfortably cradled. If the space had been little roomier, he might have considered his holding space to be cozy. 

There was a pillowcase over his head, or what he was assuming was a pillowcase; the material was light enough for him to breathe through and made a fairly good hood. Plus, it had a plastic smell as though it had been removed from a wrapper. It was too dark for him to see anything— granted, he was a box, but that meant the box was entirely solid, otherwise he’d be able to at least see the weft of the cloth. 

The box appeared to be soundproof—he had absolutely no bearings on the outside world, which was jarring. He could appreciate silence, but this was a vacuum. 

Suddenly, there as a massive jolt and he felt the box collide with something hard beneath him, and then to his surprise, he found himself out. There was a loud roar of a turbine—a plane!—and he felt they were bobbing.

“Jesus, Ralph—get him back in there and shut the lid!” someone yelled.

Will kept his body limp and loose as though he was unconscious still and allowed himself to be quickly stuffed back in the box he’d been in, this time accompanied by bits of gravel and the unmistakeable smell of the sea. 

He’d been on a plane. He’d been flown somewhere which—depending how long he’d been in the air—could mean he might be anywhere in North, Central, and South America. It was a terrifying prospect and his stomach clenched as he wondered who would feed his dogs, before he remembered that he didn’t have dogs anymore. Which didn’t make him feel better. And with the way he was bobbing up and down right now, it suggested he’d just been transferred to a boat. Had he been on a sea plane? 

The cloth of the pillowcase was dark, because there wasn’t much light that was making its way through the fabric weft. That was a good sign, because that meant it was still daylight. Unless the runway they’d landed on had a massive floodlight system. So as long as it was still the same day, that meant it had only been a few hours. He’d been taken at about eleven-thirty in the afternoon and it was decently lit enough that he was able to tell he’d not been gone long. God, how hard had he been hit on the head? 

Why had he been hit on the head?

_‘I’ve been kidnapped.’_

_‘Oh god.’_

_‘I’m a hostage.’_

_‘Who has me?’_

_‘I wasn’t—I don’t—oh god, what about Abigail and Hannibal?’_

_‘No—I was taken from the university, wasn’t I? Hannibal and Abigail weren’t with me. They have more security than I do. They’re at the White House today. It’s just me.’_

Just as the relief of knowing they were safe began to appear, it was filled with the overwhelming fear that he was alone and he had no idea how to get free. He lacked the brute force coiled in Hannibal’s body, as well as the nimble maneuverability Abigail possessed, and while he was certain he could take someone in a fight if he had a beer in him, this was a whole different matter completely. The people who had him were obviously professionals to whatever extent someone could be at kidnapping, which immediately made him consider military. Double agents for other countries? Everyone who’d spoken so far had had very American accents, so that immediately suggested this was domestic, which led to the high likelihood that this was a group of people who had military training. Now the question was: government military or private? He shuddered slightly at the thought of being hostage to some contractor that was paid to kill for a living.

 _‘Just stay calm and everything will be okay,’_ he told himself, knowing that panic could result in injury or death.

The movement of the box was making him ill and he was relieved when it finally stopped; now from the way the box was moving he really suspected he was being carried and while he didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, the lopsided manner he was being held at and the jostling he was feeling made him suspect that now he was being carried by two people across beach sand. Trying to time how long it took from the boat feeling to wherever they stopped, his mind began to whirl with possibilities of where he’d been taken. Coastal, as he’d smelt the salt in the air. Daylight, which meant he was still likely on the eastern half of the United States, an outlying island, or the top of South America, possibly Central. Sea plane, which landed somewhere a large box could be carried and no one would notice, so either private property or enemy soil aka Cuba. But no way in hell was Cuba stupid enough to kidnap an American citizen, especially from the mainland; besides, President Chilton had secretly been working on ending the embargo before he lost his seat in office. So Will could all but rule Cuba out.

Or maybe he’d been taken north? There were vast swatches of isolated Canadian and Newfoundland coastline that they could be on right now and no one would have any idea. And from the private security briefings that Hannibal had had about North American terrorism, he knew that Canada was harbouring plenty of weirdos wanting to be the next Ted Kaczynski. 

Better question: where’d he been flown out from? There would be a record of it with the FAA, which was a very good thing, because it wouldn’t take long for someone to track the flight log and figure out where he’d been taken. Unless the flight was illegal, which there was a good likelihood, considering he had landed on what he’d now suspected to be a private beach. Somewhere sea planes wouldn’t be unusual to be seen and no one would question it landing and delivering something. 

Fuck, he knew nothing about sea planes. 

The shift in the way he was being carried indicated that he was no longer on a beach, but somewhere with a flat, solid surface. Four minutes, give or take a few seconds, to carry a one-hundred and eighty pound man plus heavy box across sand. He cursed. Anyone who could manage that would be incredibly fit—body builders? And now he was tilted at a strange angle—had the box been put on a dolly? He could certainly feel the rumble of wheels beneath him. 

His arms were so sore from being held at this angle that he wanted to throw up; he’d dislocated his right shoulder and elbow once in high school, when he’d fallen off a shrimping trawler and been caught in the nets on the way down. Right now he was starting to feel the old strains of the previously damaged muscles and sockets and he knew that if he didn’t get out of this position soon, he was looking at further injury and permanent damage was always a possibility. 

He couldn’t tell any direction they were headed in, his bearings completely fucked up at this point. His equilibrium was starting to settle, but occasional jolts and thumps made his stomach clench involuntarily each time. Then things stilled and he felt his heart start to race again—it didn’t matter if it happened in ten seconds or ten hours, someone would open the lid and—

The lid opened and the cloth hooding his head had enough light on it to make him aware that he was somewhere where people had to function—people didn’t waste electricity in areas they didn’t need lit, after all. Before he could analyse anymore, hands grabbed at him and in his fear he could just barely remember to relax his body to play unconscious. He was lowered to a hard, cold surface and then someone kicked him hard in the side, which caused him to let out a startled cry.

“He’s awake. Get him up.”

Pulled up by his upper arms, he made sure not to resist the way they were moving him, lest he upset them or get injured. In the movies, this would be the point where he’d heroically refuse to accept the passive role and would struggle against his captors, but this was the real world and if he was going to save his life and find out why he’d been taken, it was wisest simply to obey the people who had him.  

From the way the clothing on him fit, he knew it wasn’t his own—definitely a tee-shirt and possibly sweatpants. He was barefoot and the floor was unusually cool—probably concrete, considering the texture reminded him of a sidewalk; he continued curling his toes to protect his vulnerable soles as he was dragged along. He allowed his head to move around aimlessly in an attempt to judge any sounds or bright light that might give him a clue as to where he was. He hissed in pain as he was forced onto his knees, fairly sure he’d have a hard time walking for at least the next few days, even if all he’d done was bruise the kneecaps.  

The hood/pillowcase/whatever was yanked off his head and he squinted at the sudden bright light shining in his face. He started to lift his head, but someone did that for him, grabbing him hard by the hair and yanking his head back. As his eyes adjusted and he winced, he could see a black hole that he’d seen thousands of due to the press—a camera lens. He was looking into a camera.To his left, someone else spoke in a firm, victorious, and commanding voice. 

“President Lecter, First Lady Abigail, I believe we have something you want.”

*****///*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Joy Reid did take over Martin Bashir’s show, which for the rest of the year ran without his name on the title banner.
> 
> +Navy SEALs are an elite force within the U.S. Navy specializing in guerrilla warfare and counterinsurgency. The term ‘SEAL’ is an abreviation of “SEa”, “Air” and “Land” (team). 
> 
> +A ‘go bag’ is something that one might place essential items to take along in the event of an emergency. Beverly’s bag would contain all of the necessary equipment an agent might need, but a civilian might place extra cash and important documents inside a small bag.
> 
> +Lasorsa & Associates is a real tactical driving school, among other security training courses. I don’t know if they’re actually good or not, however.
> 
> +The prayer Mrs Madchen recites is the ending of a Baha’i prayer about protection.
> 
> +FAA: Federal Aviation Administration. If you are flying into, out of, or in the United States, your flight log must be registered so they can keep track of your plane. 
> 
> +A ‘dolly’ is a type of handcart
> 
> +Ted Kaczynski is better known as the Unabomber. Between 1978 and 1995 he engaged in nationwide bombing campaigns against people involved with modern technology. He killed three people and injured 23. As a young man, he was subject to ethically questionable experiments conducted at Harvard. ‘Unabomber’ came from the FBI title ‘UNABOM’, UNiversity & Airline BOMber. While his ideologies were considered very radical at the time, environmental protection and greener forms of technology are now considered goals to achieve by the majority of the US population. His has eight life sentences without the possibility of parole. 
> 
> +Ugh, I’ve wanted to post this chapter since last September. I hope it has everyone on the edge of their seat!


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place on Dec 5, 2013

Abigail awoke to a dark room, though she could hear footsteps in the Center Hall. Her eyes ached and for the first time in her life, she felt a pain in her chest that made her understand the term ‘heartache’. Rolling out of bed, she stumbled over to her bedroom door; it didn’t matter to her that she looked bedraggled and hadn’t brushed her teeth—she needed to make sure that everything that needed to be done to find Will was happening. Thankfully, her father was there in the hallway talking with one of the agents who stood watch in the Residence and as Abigail blinked from the brightness of the hall’s lights, she made her way to them.

“Is he back yet?” Abigail asked, her voice sounding thick from sleep.

Her father allowed her to join them and he began to comb his fingers through her hair in an attempt to neaten it. “I’m afraid not, darling. We’ll have another briefing this morning. There’s been a development.”

“What kind of development?” she asked.

There were footsteps behind them and before he could answer her question, Aunt Bee appeared. “Good morning. I’m off to a secure location.”

“I wish you safe travels, Bedelia,” her father said politely, but Abigail was willing to forego her own manners in order to get answers. 

“What’s the development? Why does Aunt Bee have to be evacuated?”

Aunt Bee slipped her gloves on, observing, “She hasn’t seen the video.”

“What video?” Abigail gripped her father’s shirt sleeve. “What video!”

“Come along, Abigail.”

There was a brief detour to his bedroom, where he retrieved a dressing gown for her to wear over her pyjamas; it was the one she knew he’d bought for Will and she wrapped it tightly around her. The White House was almost eerily silent—she could hear doors shutting and hard soles on tile somewhere in the distance, but the volunteer staff that was usually buzzing around, drinking their home brought coffee and heading down to the canteen to buy a small breakfast before they’d start tours were missing. In light of yesterdays events, all federal buildings in the nation’s capitol had been closed to the public until further notice and so a fourth of the morning staff were now kept off the property. Her bare feet made no noise across the tile floors and she gave a silent thanks to the nighttime cleaning staff for the clean floors she was walking across.

When she’d first been given a tour of the White House, the Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing had been glossed over, a space she’d never need to go into; now she’d have been inside it twice in under twenty-four hours. An agent standing guard outside opened the door for the two of them to enter and she saw the room was already inhabited by seven men; they reminded her of the stock images of NASA flight crews from the sixties—white button-ups, glasses, and balding patterns. 

“Mr President—“

Upon seeing her, they rushed to take the image off the screen up at the front of the room and Abigail managed to catch a quick glimpse of guns. Her heart jumped—had someone managed to film the people who’d done this? 

“Abigail will be present for all briefings, if she wishes to attend,” her father said simply and Abigail felt the fierce love for him that she had burn strongly. 

Others might have tried to keep her out because of her age or her gender, but he knew her better than anyone and wouldn’t pretend that she couldn’t handle the ugliness that lived in this world. Together they sat down at the large table, he at the head and she to his right. 

“Please proceed,” her father instructed them.

They shuffled papers and a shorter man who had an actual pocket protector on his shirt came to the forefront of the group. “This morning at 4:34 AM a video was uploaded to YouTube to an account called REDDRAGON.”

Abigail frowned. “Why do they call themselves REDDRAGON?”

“We’re looking into that.”

“What other videos do they have?” she asked next. 

“Only the one.”

“What’s the video of?”

“It is a hostage video, Abigail,” her father said; he placed his hand on hers and gave her a look that indicated it would be best if she was silent while the security advisors spoke. 

She felt the tightness in her chest disappear. Good, that meant Will was still alive, right?

One of the men at the front was staring at her uncomfortably, then at her father. “President Lecter, I don’t think it would be good idea to show her…“

“I need to. I need to see him. To know,” she whispered to her father, not wanting to be denied. 

“The First Lady is allowed to stay if she wishes.” Her father’s tone allowed no room for argument. 

Abigail’s mind began to fill with scenarios of what they could possibly have seen that would upset her. Were they hurting Will on the video? She couldn’t imagine what could be so bad that they wouldn’t want her to see it. The video was brought back up to the screen and she tightened her told on her father’s hand for a moment as ‘play’ was selected. 

The video was listed as two minutes and twenty-one seconds long, and she wasn’t sure if that was long or short for these types of things. There were a group of men in military fatigues, seven in total; as she watched, she was relieved to see that there was no torturing, and that when Will was brought out, he seemed intact. But as someone who’d been raised to consider compassion, pity, and sympathy as undesirable weaknesses, she found herself drowning in the painful emotions as she watched very angry, militant men who held guns and had olive green ski masks on to hide their identity standing on either side of Will, who was staring at the camera in confusion and then fear. His eyes were scanning the room and when he attempted to turn his head around, one of the men gripped him by the hair and forced him to face the camera once more. At the end of the video, a man brought the butt of his rifle down hard across the back of Will’s head and he slumped to the ground, then the screen cut to black.

Abigail bowed her head, trying not to give any reaction as she closed her eyes and gripped her father’s hand tightly. She breathed slowly through her nose while she listened to her father talk. 

“Have they attempted to make contact with the White House or left a way to be reached? I assume they will have a list of demands that have to be met in order for me to retrieve Will.”

“We have no evidence that he’s dead, which is a good thing,” one of the advisors said. “He’s obviously a huge bargaining chip, so we’re guessing that these people will make demands by the end of the day, probably no later than the end of tomorrow. They’re using this as a shock tactic, to force you to answer to the nation for Mr Graham’s treatment.”

“They wish to look more powerful than me.”

“Us,” Abigail corrected, opening her eyes and raising her head; they’d mentioned her in the video, too. “They’re trying to look more powerful than _us_.”

“You’re right. This is about the two of us.” His thumb rubbed gentle circles on her hand. 

“Would you play it again? And do you happen to have a transcript of what’s being said?” she asked, aware that she was shaking.

One of the advisors hurried over to them with two sheets of paper. “Yes, here you are,” he said handing one to her first, “and one for you, Mr President.”

“Thank you,” she and her father said in unison. 

The video began to play again and she averted her eyes to the sheet of paper, reading along with the man speaking.

“Will’s suffering a concussion. His eyes are not dilating properly,” her father observed. 

“Good thing we have a doctor here.” Notes were made by the advisors. “Anything else?”

“Hard to say. Have a copy of the video sent to my iPad, enhanced audio.” When it ended, he ordered, “Play it again.” 

After it played a second time, one of the advisors commented, “We’re working on having it removed from You—“

“No!” Abigail cried out as her father quickly insisted, “Leave it up.”

“I want to see how many hits it gets,” she said and the advisors looked at her with bewildered expressions. 

Her father was quick to speak before she could say more. “The comments might show who is responsible. Whomever has done this will want to take credit at some point—this is a coordinated effort and there will be at least one weak link. Surely someone will speak in a public forum and where better than this one?”

“Contact YouTube and don’t let them pull it. Threaten First Amendment if they try to remove it out of poor taste,” one of the advisors suggested to the group while another asked, “What does this mean for the White House?”

Her father spoke once more. “This is a new era; technology should be used to our advantage in the war against domestic terrorists. They are trying to gain an upper hand by broadcasting their crimes for the world to see—we shall use their arrogance against them. They shall think we are inept, a college freshman fumbling with a panty girdle, when the truth is we are sneaking up on them and they will not realise it until it’s far too late for them. These videos shall be their undoing.”

“What’s wrong with his teeth?” she said suddenly, pointing to the very tall man who was addressing the camera. “I mean, it looks as though he’s never received dental care.”

The men turned to look at her father, as though they expected someone with a medical degree could confirm if a person had crooked teeth or not. Her father studied the frozen frame that had been zoomed in to focus on the apparent ringleader of the group; he nodded as they looked expectantly to him. 

“And is that something on his lip? Perhaps he has had reconstructive surgery. A hard palette repair.”

“That’s something very specific to trace. Records of surgeries immediately narrow down who we’re looking for.”

“Aren’t there supposed to be patient privacy laws in place?” her father asked with a straight face. 

The men were quiet and Abigail almost laughed at how silly it all was that they’d think a man willing to become the President of the United States would care about respecting the rights of others during a crisis. People didn’t get into politics because they _cared_ about others.

“I’m sure we could find a way,” one of the men said neutrally, avoiding their eyes. 

“Human flesh search engines,” Abigail proposed. “It’s a term from China, but it’s practiced everywhere. You put up a picture of what you’re looking for and ask the public to search for it—not just a search _by_ humans, but a search _of_ humans. They’ve used it to find hit-and-run drivers and just, like, people in photos. A lot of the time it’s used for internet vigilantism. And not all of their methods for research are legal—they hack.”

“We should assign agents to patrol public forums that might be interested in identifying the members of REDDRAGON or their location,” her father recommended. 

“The FBI will be offering a monetary reward of fifty-thousand dollars for information leading to the capture of this man,” one of the advisors noted, pointing the one they’d been talking about.

“No, make it for the safe release of Will,” Abigail said. “I want to know that people will protect his life while looking for quick money. No money unless Will is recovered safely.”

Another advisor shook his head. “That’s a ransom.”

“Will gets out alive or no money for anyone,” she insisted. “And Will is worth more money than that.”

An advisor with glasses explained, “We’re not really authorised to pay ransoms. We can only give money for the information that leads to the capture of someone we’re searching for.” 

She wanted to scream at them for not understanding that she didn’t want those people captured, she just wanted Will back. But she held her tongue and thought of vicious things, such is how she’d personal dismember each member of REDDRAGON while on camera so that everyone could see that anyone who took from her would pay with their lives. 

“Is there anything else we can do for you, First Lady?” 

Frustrated, but willing to mine the situation for all the information she could possibly gather, she asked, “I want to know what progress has been made with the traffic tapes during the time he was kidnapped—we should have an identification of the vehicle they were traveling in by now, right?”

“We have identified the vehicle. Standard white utility van, plates identified as ones belonging to a 1953 Ford pickup from California.” One of the men came over with the image of a license plate that was black with yellow numbers. “As you can see from the colour and arrangement, they’re sixty years old. Coulda bought these at a flea market or antique store, or even pulled them off the side of a barn. But we have some agents up in Fresno right now talking with the family of the man who owned the truck—he’s in a nursing home with Alzheimer's, so we’re investigating anyone who mighta worked for the family and been around the truck, if it still exists.”

“So no real lead, then,” she murmured, studying the numbers for any sort of clue.

“No, ma’am.”

They’d put an image of the van up on the screen at the front of the room, a still from a street level camera. “But the van looks new.” 

A man with a pocket protector nodded. “We have someone running a check on the exact make and model of this van right now. From there, we’ll trace any sold in North America and try to cross reference that list with any additional evidence we’ve found.”

“But there have to be millions of these vans,” she said despondently.

They all nodded. “There are.” 

But Abigail knew that the false license number wasn’t enough to throw them off trail. “If he was driven to his holding location in that van, we can work back from the time the film was uploaded to the time he was kidnapped, and create a radius starting at GWU; based on the legal speed limits, we would know how far they could go and then cross reference any domestic terrorist groups, hate groups, or an address that matches someone who’s made a threat to the White House.”

At this, the men all looked very surprised and one nodded his head. 

“That’s right, First Lady. We’ve already started on that, trying to narrow down the most likely places they would have gone. Though chances are pretty high that they’ve already abandoned this van somewhere, so we’ll still be able to use the perimeter idea on the map, but we won’t limit it to where this van could have travelled.” 

She was relieved that they’d thought of those things already and leaned back in her chair, contemplative. “The real question is: why would they take Will from the university and not Wolf Trap? His homehas more weak spots and they could have gone in during the night when he was sleeping and catch the agents on patrol off guard. Here they had to plan for not just agents who were already on edge, but four police officers.”

Her father finally spoke and his voice was gentle. “Will wasn’t the target, Abigail.” She turned to him and his eyes stared into hers. “You were.”

Something twisted sharp in her stomach. “ _Me_?”

“This would have taken time to plan out, to prepare how to remove a target from that exact location while eliminating their agents. It’s the route your agents took you out of the building every time, correct?”

“Oh my god.” She inhaled sharply and glance back over at the screen. “I didn’t go to school because of the article, but they knew he would be there regardless and so they took the next best thing.”

“We’d not even considered that yet,” one of the advisors admitted aloud.

Her father watched her with the calm indifference and she understood why he’d been so passive during this morning’s meeting—he’d suspected that Will had never been the original target and had been quietly considering all possibilities before voicing his own. 

“It’s not your fault,” he told her.

“No, it’s Freddie’s,” she whispered, turning back to him. 

“And then you would have been taken. She has done us a favour,” he murmured in response.

“But Will has been taken.”

He shook his head, switching over to Lithuanian to afford them more privacy. _“He is not helpless, Abigail. He is no different than the two of us.This is burning away the paper around the steel. We shall be left with someone who has endured the life we have. And what better opportunity to see him exercise his true nature, than by fighting for his life?”_

Abigail nodded and turned her attention back to the screen. “If they’d been waiting to do this, they knew they’d missed their chance with me. But they knew if they acted now, they could still have some payoff for all the time they’d already invested.” She felt lightheaded. “Oh my god.”

The advisors were busy with the new information and she was glad they were distracted, affording her time to control her own emotions. Her father’s hand rest on her shoulder and she wished she had a paper bag to breath into, but she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind of anything upsetting. Will wasn’t going to be saved by a panic attack and if she wanted these advisors to take her seriously, she needed to think with her mind and not with her heart. 

Her father’s Chief of Staff, Uncle Jack, entered the room and he paused upon seeing her. 

“Are you all right?” he asked as he came around the side of the table and knelt at her side. 

“I’m okay,” she promised, not wanting anyone to find a reason to have her removed.

He didn’t seem so convinced. “Do you need a break?”

“Please,” she admitted, about ready to fall out of the chair. 

“I believe it would do both of us good to leave for a few minutes, perhaps have something to nibble on,” her father suggested, suddenly in the paternal role once more as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder as Jack led them both out of the Situation Room.

“Let’s go down to the canteen—it’s not opened to the staffers yet, just Secret Service, so we don’t have to worry about being watched,” Jack suggested.

“That would be a good idea,” her father agreed. “We shall try their breakfast offerings.”

In the back of her mind she thought about the fact she was walking barefoot on the commercial carpeting that hundreds walked across each day and how filthy that was, but the more important issues in her mind centred around Will. Jack had a hand lightly under her elbow as support and as they entered the canteen, all conversation amongst Secret Service dining ceased. Reminded of her place, she smiled at everyone the best she could and did her best not to look as though she was about to pass out. 

“Mr President, First Lady, it’s an honour to have you here,” one of the canteen staff said, welcoming them as they looked at the breakfast buffet.

“We appreciate that you prepare all of these meals for the employees of the White House,” her father replied, offering a small smile to ease the worker.

Jack handed them plates from the stack at the beginning of the buffet and she spooned some of the fruit salad onto hers, while her father selected a slice of ham and then carefully spooned two poached eggs beside the meat. Abigail had no idea what to eat, considering her appetite had vanished, but her father selected poached eggs and ham for her as well, and then took a slice of honeydew for himself. Jack opted for croissants and a strip of chicken fried steak. At the end of the buffet was a cash register and Jack had the three plates billed to his office tab, and they went to sit at a circular booth in the back. 

The Secret Service had resumed talking and eating, but their glances towards the First Family weren’t exactly secret and as Abigail spread her napkin across her lap, she decided to just ignore them; Jack brought back three coffees for them in take-along cups which made Abigail suddenly miss Starbucks. The three began to eat their breakfast and Abigail waited for Jack to talk first.

Three minutes later, he did just that. “We feel it would be best if you issued a response to the situation yourself. Bella will reschedule her daily briefing for after you speak.”

Abigail looked at her father as she chewed a blackberry. He didn’t seem to be upset by the food or the topic of conversation. She and Jack waited patiently for him to reply.

He added sugar to his cup of coffee, stirring it in with his spoon. “This is the most important thing happening in my life at the moment, but it is not the most important event happening in the nation or the world. This is an attack against myself. They have made that abundantly clear by addressing me specifically. This does not affect or concern the single mother in Michigan who is working two minimum wage jobs to keep her family fed. This does not affect the farmer in California’s central valley, which is experiencing drought conditions. This does not even affect the chefs who prepared our breakfasts.” He cut into one of the poached eggs, which spilt its golden yolk across the plate. “I shall not forego my duties as the leader of this nation simply because someone is taunting me. I shall not make a personal event in my life take precedence to national issues. We shall not interrupt the regularly scheduled press briefing—I shall schedule something to follow hers.”

“This fruit salad is good,” Abigail contributed to the conversation abruptly. 

Her father glanced down at her plate. “It has bananas in it.”

“It does,” she agreed, staring at it. “Do you think they’re feeding Will?”

“Perhaps not right away, but they will. Whether he will eat is another matter.”

“He’s going to be afraid of poison?” she asked softly.

“No.” Her father took a bite of the ham, chewed, then swallowed. “He knows that these men aren’t the type to poison. They would much rather execute him if the need to kill him arose.”

“They’ll want to take care of him so that we’ll want him back.”

“Correct.” He gestured to her plate with his fork tines. “And Will would want you to eat, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes.” She started to cut into the ham with her knife. “The man on the camera said we’d have to wait for their next video before we’d know what their demands were.”

“Yes.”

She knew Jack was listening to their conversation intently, but she was aware that changing languages would be too conspicuous. “Are you going to give them what they want?”

Her father buttered a piece of bread. “It depends on what they want.”

“What if they want something really awful?” she asked.

“Then we shall simply have to rescue Will first. Eat your breakfast, Abigail.”

Jack asked for her to pass the salt and pepper and she did, watching him season the food as she overchewed her fruit salad. As she worked on the eggs and ham, Jack left with his plate and returned with it covered in white sausage gravy. 

“Little tough,” he commented and she nodded as though she understood.

When they’d finished eating, Jack grabbed their plates to take them to the bus trays. “Let me get those and you twoget back upstairs or wherever those advisors want you.”

“Thank you, Jack,” her father said cordially. 

“Thank you,” she echoed as she watched him carry the plates away. 

“Are you feeling better now that you’ve had something to eat?” her father asked.

She did feel a little more settled, if she thought about it. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Why don’t we go back up to the Residence and you can get ready for the day?” he suggested as they stood from the table.

She frowned, allowing him to lead her back towards the exit of the canteen. “But I want to go back to the meeting.”

“And you shall, but first you should dress and prepare yourself for the day. Then you will need to go to your office and explain what is happening to your staff; you are their leader and it is important that even now in the face of a crisis, you can be relied upon to provide answers.”

“I wish you could do it for me.”

“I know, but it is time that you lead on your own.” As they passed the Situation Room, she saw Barney walking in their direction. “Good morning, Agent Matthews.”

“Good morning, Mr President.” Her agent managed a smile for her. “Abigail, why don’t we get back to the Residence?”

“My dad was just saying I should,” she murmured as she allowed herself to be separated from her father. 

“Once she is dressed, she is to go to her office and instruct her staff with what is to happen in her absence. Then she may return here if she so wishes,” her father instructed her agent.

“Understood,” he replied. “This way, First Lady.”

She no longer felt shaky, but as Barney led her back to the Residence, she felt overwhelmed with dread that Will was suffering because of her and that the horrible people who’d taken him might have been so rough with him as retaliation for being unable to take her. And if they thought that he was her secret lover, would they be extra cruel to him for the sake of upsetting her?

“Go get dressed. I’ll be right out here, okay?” Barney motioned to one of the benches in the hallway when they reached the Residence.

“Have you seen the video?” she asked, wondering if he knew why she was so upset this morning.

“Yes,” he said softly.

She didn’t know what else she wanted to say, so she simply turned and went to her bedroom. At her closet, she selected a red sweater, wanting a colour that made her feel powerful, then plain tweed slacks and a simple knit shell to wear; it took her only a few minutes to shed her pyjamas and put on the new clothes, opting to forego a shower for now. Soft socks and plain leather loafers covered her feet from the carpet and she went into the bathroom next. 

But as she brushed her teeth, all she could think about was the end of that rifle colliding with the back of Will’s skull, the way he’d fallen forward and the video had ended. She hoped he hadn’t landed on anything like concrete, as the video showed from the knees up of the captors and not the complete area that they were holding Will. 

Finally, her mind became too overwhelmed to focus on rinsing her mouth out with mouthwash, and she stared at herself in the mirror, whispering, “The Presidency is an institution, not a person. And that institution will be protected at all costs.”

When she’d first heard that line in the movie ‘Murder at 1600’, she hadn’t understood why someone would be so selfless to a job that the majority of people would never get to even apply for, let alone get. But it was like being a Lecter, she decided. When one was given the role, she lost all sense of self and had to do whatever was best for the name and reputation, and if she failed, she needed to be removed in by whatever means necessary to protect the Lecter name. The White House and the Lecter administration was relying on her—as an extension of her father’s office—to maintain a respectable façade at any and all times, so that people would believe that her father was truly in control. It was no different than the expectations of her personal life. And now that something drastic and horrible had occured, this was when she could prove herself not just to the world, but to her father that she had been worthy of being chosen to act as First Lady. 

She closed her eyes, and breathed in and out in measured breaths as she tried to clear her mind; if she thought that her father’s ability to remain in such control of human emotions was something that could be learned, she would have tried to master them in this moment. 

 _‘You’re not helping Will by freaking out,’_ she thought to herself. _‘And you’re not helping Daddy out either. And you don’t want those advisors to think you’re not capable of being in the room while they’re talking about what’s happening to Will. Just stop thinking about it as something that’s happening to you. Lecters don’t get mad—we get even.’_

When she opened her eyes, she parted her hair to the left and with a barrette that Marissa had lent to her once, pinned her hair to stay out of her face and proceeded to put on mascara. Once her makeup was in place and she thought she looked presentable up to her father’s standards, she left her bedroom and rejoined Barney in the Center Hall.

“You up to going over to your office?” he asked, looking concerned.

“Yes. I think I’ll be okay. But I’m not going to stay longer than twenty-minutes,” she said, her stomach filled with anxious butterflies at the thought of having to speak with her staffers. 

“Not a problem. I’m going to take you through the passageways though.”

“Thank you.” 

When they emerged from the passageways in the East Wing, Abigail had steeled herself, imagining herself with the confidence of the Chesapeake Ripper and entered her office with her head held high. 

“Oh my god—“

“Abigail—“

“Everyone in the conference room, right now.” Her voice was calm and steady and as she walked past her secretary, she pointed at the phone. “Hang up.”

Someone hurried ahead to open the conference room doors for her and she didn’t say anything as her entourage peppered her with questions of her own wellbeing. Once everyone was seated at the long table, she began to speak.

“My father’s best friend and former assistant, Will Graham, has been taken. Four Secret Service agents and four police officers have been killed.” She watched all the shocked and concerned expressions. “I need everyone to listen to what I have to say, because I only have time to say it once. I will not be attending any functions for this week, and probably not the next, either. I know we have big holiday celebrations and appearances to make, but there is now a security risk for the First Family and our safety takes precedence. As of right now, consider everything cancelled. I also don’t want to be away from the White House in the event Will is returned.” She wasn’t sure she really had the authority to cancel events, but who was going to argue with her? “I will attend an evening briefing here at 5 PM every night, but other than that, I shall not be coming to the office. Mrs Madchen is in charge.” She turned to look at her assistant. “Georgia, you’ll stay here today, but tomorrow you’ll work with me.” 

Georgia nodded her head, looking frightened. Abigail avoided her eyes.

“I want this office to operate as though nothing has changed. The White House shall be releasing a statement soon about what has happened.” Inhale, exhale. “I am certain that within the next hour there will be a flood of calls trying to get information about what has happened. The switchboard will be dealing with most of the calls to the White House, but there are many people who have the extensions to this office.”She swallowed hard. “All calls must go to our message system. The media will be looking for anyone who might slip up or be willing to give them something small as a favour.” She looked to towards the people who had the most phone contact in the office. “Let it go to voice mail, check their message, then call them back. End any call when they start asking. We will not be giving anyone a soundbite. Tell them that Phyllis Crawford will be issuing statements, thank them for their call, and then hang up. Don’t wait for any reply. They want to see a weakness and we will not give them one.”

When everyone nodded, she added, “All audio communication in this room is being recorded and monitored.” 

“Is there worry that there’s a leak?” her secretary asked, looking horrified. 

“Yes.” Abigail drew herself up a little taller. “And I will not allow it to come from my office.”

One of the aide raised their hand. “So the video is real, then?”

“It’s very real. They’ve confirmed it’s Will,” she said grimly. 

“Who are they?” another aide asked.

“There are analysts from around the country working on that.”

“Do they think Mr Graham is hurt?” her secretary chimed in once more. 

“I don’t know.” 

Another staffer raised their hand. “Are we in any danger, Abigail? The Secret Service came and talked to us last night, but…”

“Those people who took Will have what they want. But as with everything else, be careful,” she instructed. 

Mrs Madchen leaned forward. “I’ll have one of the Secret Service agents come over to talk with everyone about security protocol again.”

While it certainly hadn’t been twenty minutes, Abigail didn’t want to talk to her office workers anymore. “I really need to go. I’m expected in the West Wing.”

“Where can we reach you?” someone called out. 

“Anything you need, run by Mrs Madchen first. If it’s something she can’t answer, text me. I’ll have my phone with me all day.” She glanced up at the clock. “I’ll be going now, but will see everyone again at five.”

She didn’t wait to listen to anyone send along their thoughts and prayers, or try to offer her sympathetic looks. Barney offered to escort her through the passages, but not wanting to waste time, she declined. One of the ushers who’d been tending to Winston for the morning met them in the East Wing and as she held onto his leash, she wondered if by now everyone in Washington had seen the video. 

When she reached the basement of the West Wing, her father was waiting outside the Situation Room for her. He eyed Winston, but said nothing, instead allowed the dog to sniff his palm and scratched behind his ears.

“How were they?” he asked. 

“Fine. I took charge, just like you said.”

“Very good, Abigail.”

She knew that even if he didn’t feel things the way she did, if his passions moved the heavens in different directions, that it still must be a difficult time for him as well. Any wrong move would cost him Will and he had just as much to lose as she did. 

“Thank you. For not excluding me from this,” she told him. 

In a moment of rare tenderness, he quietly said, “You are important to me, too. Don’t ever forget that.”

They moved into an embrace and she whispered, “I love you.”

*****

“Good morning. I’m going to start this press briefing for December 5th, 2013 with the following statement: President Lecter will be holding a press conference directly after mine in regard to the situation with Will Graham. I will not be answering any questions regarding that matter, so I suggest you don’t ask them. Once we get through this briefing, the President will come out and speak, so if we can keep questions centred around what _I_ will be discussing, then we’ll get through this quickly and you’ll be able to hear what he has to say. Does everyone understand?”

There was a grumbled chorus of affirmative noises from the journalists and Bella smiled, nodding her head. She then began to speak of the new farm bill that the Senate had passed the day before and that the President would sign it later in the day without any pomp and circumstance; she rattled off a few statistics to reemphasise how important the bill was going to be for thousands of farmers across the nation, noting the restlessness of the journalists in their seats. Next, she brought up the very important issues of Russia’s involvement in the Ukraine, that the President was aware of recent military activity and unrest in Crimea; this piqued the interest of everyone in attendance, speculating that she was foreshadowing the facts about what had happened to Will Graham. She herself had wondered if this new found tension between America and Russia was the cause of the President’s former assistant and current (clandestine) lover’s disappearance, but Jack had assured her that the two matters appeared to be unrelated. Then she spoke about the First Lady’s “fresh vegetables in school cafeterias” initiative, which had lost a little traction in the past few days ever since the Tattle-Politics’ article that accused her of an inappropriate relationship with Graham had been published; as the reporters present leaned in with interest, she was firm in emphasising yet again that the young woman was not in a relationship with the man and that he was nothing more than a close family friend, something that earned eye rolling and skeptical looks. 

A few minutes were devoted to the remarks Senator Lindsey Graham had made about the President’s silence on the matters regarding the Keystone XL Pipeline, and then she had to confirm yet again that former Lieutenant Governor Abel Gideon _would_ be granted clemency and that his release date was scheduled for the 11 th, six days away. Even she still felt disbelief that someone who was a psychopath, a man who’d shown no remorse for his victims, was being released to the general public and if she could tell anything from the looks on her husband’s face when she brought up the topic, it seemed that Gideon would be allowed at the White House—not exactly the type of environment she wanted on top of the current crisis. Much of her time in the government sector had been under the employ of NATO and she could count on one hand all the times her office had encountered situations as tangled and messy as the one the White House was facing right now.

She took questions and thankfully everyone for the most part didn’t repeat questions that had already been asked or bothered with debating semantics, as was routine. Freddie Lounds sat towards the back and did ask some questions about Abel Gideon’s pardon that were of more content than the usual slog that the rest of the reporters asked about the matter, but Bella along with the rest of the White House wasn’t terribly happy with Lounds at the moment and so Bella gave her answers cool and curt to the other woman, wanting it apparent to everyone that the White House protected its own. 

Finally, her briefing reached its end and the journalists and their photogs began to stir once more at the promise the President was to come out and speak to them about what was currently regarded as the largest news story in the nation, if not the entire world. Bella walked off the dais and down to the hallway that was usually void of anyone; Hannibal stood out of the line of sight for anyone in the seats.

“Would you like Jack to stand with you? He could announce anything you might want if you start feeling overwhelmed,” she asked; she didn’t want to embarrass him needlessly, but she also didn’t want him to feel cornered when he spoke to the cameras and having Jack up there to take over wouldn’t make him look too emotional. 

“That’s very kind of you to offer, Bella,” he said softly. 

“Break a leg,” she told him, trying to find a smile. 

He nodded and then walked out of the hallway and into the pressroom. She trailed a bit behind, feeling Jack’s hand come to rest on her shoulder; the pressroom was filled with the sounds of every camera in the room taking photos in rapid succession, their shutters creating a cloud of sound. Hannibal stood in front of the podium and one of the technical support team, hurried over to adjust the microphone to his height before he spoke. Once the tech support returned to the sidelines, Hannibal scanned the audience of reporters once to confirm he had their attention and Bella held her breath.

*****

Margot felt a buzzing in her pocket; her personal phone had been bothering her for almost an hour now and she knew it had to be Mason. He was the only one who’d keep calling with such persistence and she knew it could only be about Will Graham’s disappearance, which was incredibly alarming; she’d been able to use the emergency status as an excuse to avoid visiting him at breakfast this morning, but he’d always been an impatient person and wasn’t going to give her a second’s rest if he could help it. 

She was in the First Family’s gym with Lecter, who was running on the treadmill during a two hour break from the ongoing analyse of the kidnapping for lunch and exercise. Deciding to risk it, she pulled it out of her pocket and glanced down at the screen.

“Is that your brother?”

She looked up at the President, who’s eyes were still focused on looking out the window.

She nodded hesitantly. “His doctor.”

He brought the machine to a halt and as he toweled the sweat off his forehead, motioned for her to answer. She put it on speaker, setting it down on the treadmill’s bookrest and leaned in close so that her voice wouldn’t sound so tinny, and Cordell wouldn’t suspect that someone was listening in. 

“I’m on my break,” she said, hoping her voice sounded more hostile than it did nervous; the last thing she needed was for Cordell or Mason to suspect she was a snitch.

“You’re alone?” Cordell asked.

“Yes.”

“Mason wants to know if there’s been any identification of REDDRAGON. He needs—”

“Let me talk to her, Cordell,” her brother called out; she could hear Cordell turning on the speakerphone and the slight rustling of bed sheets. “Margot, I want to know everything.” 

“We really don’t have any—“

“That’s bullshit. Tell me what you know,” her brother demanded.

She could hear the machine that pumped extra air into his lungs and she sighed, making eye contact with the President. He gave a small nod and she began to talk. 

“We know it’s a radical militia group. We’re working on tracing back to where the video was uploaded, but the proxy servers are all over. It’s going to take a while.” She looked back at Lecter to gauge his reaction to her words and he seemed to be fine with it so she continued. “They’ve not given us any additional information—we don’t know what their motivations are or what they’re hoping to get out of a hostage situation, and we’re having to fight with YouTube to keep the video up and the channel active.”

“Lecter isn’t trying to get it taken down?”

The President nodded to her and so she played along. “He is, but we’re hoping that we can catch these people easier by allowing them to keep their forum. It’s also letting us monitor what people are saying.” She looked down at a text that the President had written two words on: << _The Van_ >>. “The footage we have on the suspected getaway vehicle isn’t very good. We’re really not even sure if it _is_ the getaway vehicle. No plates. White, we think it’s a Chevy Express—we’ve got someone analysing all the screenshots we have to pinpoint the exact make and model, though.”

“What else?” Her brother sounded bored.

“Mason, just tell me what it is you _need_ to know.” She hated all these runaround games he played and wished he would just get to the point.

“I want to buy Will Graham off them and I need to know how to contact them.” He sounded like a child who had been given an allowance for the first time—unreasonably giddy—and her heart nearly seized. 

“I don’t think they’re looking for money.” She could hear her voice shaking. 

“Everyone has a price and you know that.”

The President passed over another quickly written text: << _Offer him the video uploading information >>_

“Mason, I think I can get you the video uploading information, but I’ll need to go right now to get it. Is that okay?”

“Get it and bring it to me tonight.”

“Fine.” She ended the call and looked up at the President. “Why do you want my brother to have that information?”

“He has access connexions the Secret Service does not.”

“Do you want to give him the chance to buy Graham?” she asked cautiously—how on _earth_ could that be a good idea?

He tilted his head slightly. “Interaction between your brother and the group could be easily intercepted and we might be able to recover Will that way. Or, there is the possibility we could capture them as they attempt to bring Will to your brother. Or best of all, we could catch your brother attempting to traffic a hostage and can have him arrested as well.”

“Mason…” she hesitated, because all the secrets she held about him were each worse than the one previous.

“Take your time.”

She finally settled on the one she thought might make Lecter understand that her brother was simply dangerous. “He’s fixated on your daughter.”

But the President didn’t seem upset or alarmed. “Naturally. He sees her as my weakness.”

“He wants to use her against you,” she added. 

“I’m not surprised.” The corners of his lips twitched just enough to indicate that he wanted to smile. “Don’t worry, Margot—I didn’t get here by luck.”

She didn’t allow herself to think of any of the threats her brother had made over the years about what he’d do if he ever got his hands on the young Lecter. “I worry for her sake.”

“We shall focus on assisting your brother help us first, then we will worry about her next.” He paused and when she nodded, he continued. “I shall have Agent Perlman make another copy of the information and then I will give it to you before you leave for the night.

Unease settled over her once more. “This is…off-the-books?”

“Yes. I believe if any more people were involved, your brother might catch onto us.”

Margot wanted more than anything to ask the President if he and his daughter had in fact caused her brother’s near death, but that would upset the fragile balance of power between them and she couldn’t deal with that at the moment. There was something hollow in the President’s eyes and she looked away; her brother’s injuries were both the best and worst thing to happen in her life, and if that meant Hannibal Lecter was an ally, he was at best a very dangerous one. 

She nodded her head and put her phone away as the President started up the treadmill once more and began to run.

*****

Will was in a coffin sized box on his side; his ankles and wrists had been ziptied again and he was having a hard time finding a comfortable position that didn’t put his fingers to sleep, hurt his neck, or restrict his movement. The inside of this box was padded and it was temperate with airflow down by his waist, making him wonder if this was a custom built holding area designed to keep him alive and in relative comfort while depriving him of any contact with the outside world. He couldn’t hear any sound of what was going on with the men who’d taken him and in the pitch black, it felt like the start of a nightmare. 

All he could do was try to stay relaxed and work through any details he’d noted that he might be able to use to his advantage. But he had a very nasty headache from being hit twice and he was having a hard time thinking of anything productive, his mind just playing his kidnapping on reply. One gunshot, two, three, four—

There was a sliding above his face and Will was suddenly blinded by the bright clean light of an LED flashlight; in instinct, he tried to jerk his hands up to cover his eyes and squinted against the light. Whomever was holding the flashlight was kept anonomus as Will couldn’t see behind the bright light. 

“You’re Will Graham.” The voice was deep and quiet, cold like a beam of iron.

Will felt fear. “Yes.”

“Do you know why you’re here?” Will reconised the voice as belonging to the man who’d spoken for the video.

“My life is the bartering chip you needed for getting what you want.”

There was silence and then the man gave an affirmative, “Uhm-hmm.”

Will blinked and winced as the bright light continued to shine in his eyes; he wasn’t expected to talk and he felt as though the words being exchanged between them were dangerous, everything heavy and evaluated, their value to be determined and used against the other at some point. 

“I can make your time here brief or long. Up to Lecter.” The man’s voice paused for a moment and then in lower tone, he instructed, “Reach behind you, Will Graham, and feel the small knobs on the top of your pelvis. That is the precise spot the Dragon will snap your spine.”

Will didn’t flinch, didn’t move his hands from their position even if it would provide relief—he didn’t want to give this sonofabitch the satisfaction.

The man continued. “If Lecter won’t honour what I ask of him, I’ll do it on camera for him to watch. What will the First Lady think of that?”

The hatch was slid shut and Will was returned to the dark. _‘Don’t panic,’_ he coached himself. _‘Just use your damn brain to figure out what to do. Analyse to stay alive.’_ Now that he could distract himself with things of importance, things that came naturally, he began to consider the apparent leader of the group that had taken him. 

The man’s voice was quiet, calm, _rehearsed_. He’d avoided anything with a fricative /s/ until the last few sentences. He’d threatened Will effectively and Will fought to push away the exact clinical fantasy of having his back broken, knowing his mind would better serve him thinking about an escape plan. He wondered if Hannibal, the man who thought himself to be God, would have a solution for a broken back. Probably eat the parts of his body that were paralysed, if he was going to be honest about it. No, okay, there were things to fear and the fear of his back being broken by a guy referring to himself as ‘The Dragon’ was not one of them. If he was going to start worrying about people with bad names coming after him, the one he’d fear the most was Hannibal the Cannibal, because at the end of the day, Hannibal was the one most likely to destroy everything simply for the sake of knowing that Will couldn’t be touched by anyone else. 

“Yeah, you better watch out. Hannibal the Cannibal’s after us now,” he whispered.

*****

As the day drew towards evening and no new information came to light, Hannibal sent Abigail back to her office to talk with her staffers and returned to his own for a moment of peace. The understanding that Abigail had been the original target had left him feeling unsettled and he kept longing to reach out for her, to keep her close in the way he’d been unable to keep Mischa close to him. But he knew that acting overly possessive was a visible sign to anyone else that he was feeling weak and so he was not allowing himself the iron grip over her every move as he otherwise might have. With any luck, she’d have nightmares and come sleep at the foot of his bed.

There was a small knock at his office door and it opened slightly to reveal Matthew Brown in civilian clothing and on crutches. “President Lecter, may I come in?” 

Hannibal nodded once and the agent entered, shutting the door behind him. “Agent Brown, how are you?”

“I’m okay.” He looked shaken and drawn, but Hannibal could admire that he was still coming into work. “I wanted you to know that if there is anything at all I can do to help you find Will, I'd be happy to help. _Anything_.”

The emphasis of the last word lacked subtlety and Hannibal was only too happy to point it out. “Are you suggesting that you are willing to break Secret Service protocols and oaths you swore to uphold, so that Will might be found?”

“Yes.” The young agent was earnest.

“And you would willingly put yourself in that position, where you would not only lose your job, but face criminal prosecution?”

“Yes.” 

Hannibal would always welcome those willing to bend their morals in order to get him what he needed. “Very well. I'm sure you have somewhere to be. I won't hold you any longer.” 

Brown might not be a friend, but for the moment he was an ally. “Thank you, Mr President.”

*****

It was ten in the evening and Francis Dolarhyde had worked out to near-exhaustion with the weights, patrolled the compound’s perimeters, and had eaten two cheeseburgers that one of His men had brought back from the closest inland Burger King. They’d been almost cold at the time they’d reached Him, but He’d eaten them regardless, nerves calmed by the association of having done something good enough to deserve fast food; Grandmother had only ever take Him to town to get a fast food dinner if He’d done something she found especially pleasing and while she’d been dead for years, He was certain that the successful capture of an enemy combatant was worthy of hardly-warm Whoppers.

The box was quiet, Will Graham not shouting or protesting or pleading, and Francis suspected he was too scared to fall asleep yet. He considered giving a good kick to the side just to scare him.

As He sat in the corner of the room, He watched the muted television with growing interest. Every damn channel—Weather, FOX, FOXNews, ESPN, MSNBC, CNBC, TBN, ABC, GAC, CNN—had either still frames of Will Graham on his knees staring at the camera, or running loops of the pillowcase being yanked off his head. Francis unscrewed the cap off His bottle of Pepsi, now lukewarm and becoming flat, and drank it down, tilting the bottle to the side so He could still study the screen. 

Over by an American flag hanging on the wall sat four of the men, eating dinner and trying to relax; it seemed everyone was still running off the adrenaline high of getting their quarry back to their base. Ralph Mandy was blabbering mindlessly, worried and paranoid about the mission, already doubting they’d made a good decision. He was eating a second tv dinner—Salisbury steak—a fleck of gravy on the corner of his mouth, talking with his mouth open. Mandy was a smaller man, the kind of asshole who thought he needed to compensate for the fact that he wasn’t six foot eight. Dandridge wasn’t much better, a younger man who was completely obedient to Him, but prone to bossing the other members of the group as he considered himself the second in command. He had promise if Dolarhyde could straighten him out. There were five other men in the group and one female, bringing their total to nine, including the Dragon Himself.

Francis watched in silence from the shadows. His solemn and quietude had given Him the air of complete control; He was after all someone who had plenty of strength and power, but control was made everyone respect Him. 

Pepsi finished, He wiped off His mouth with the back of His hand and turned His attention back to the TV. The footage of Graham playing now was from the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, where he’d been dressed up in a suit; he was shown talking with the President, holding a glass of water in one hand, adjusting his glasses with the other. 

Graham was slender. It would be easy to break his back. Better than killing him. Break his back and twist it just to be sure. The Secret Service could roll him to his classes. He could picture that as clear as day. Would Graham still want to teach after that or would a guilty government make sure he had disability to leech off of at home? He could see it in his mind’s eye as though he was the one secretly filming with a telescopic lens—Graham sitting at his kitchen table in a motorised wheelchair, alone, because there was no way Abigail Lecter would keep seeing a broken man. Graham would probably break up with her to save himself the humiliation, simply tell her that she shouldn’t have to throw her life away for him.

Yes, the more He thought about this, the more He liked it. Graham wouldn’t leave here whole. But there was no hurry. Let Graham _dread_ it. 

Dolarhyde felt a sense of power all the time now. Just as He could feel Lecter’s own power growing. Francis would be lying if He said He didn’t respect Lecter’s own identity. Sure, he was the opponent, but Lecter had a brilliance—vastly intelligent, a man who’d seen the world in a raw and real form, a man who’d gone from the top of his medical field to the top of the political sphere. He was handsome, virile, a powerful leader. 

There was something about him that Francis saw paralleled His own nature. It would be good to conquer the man, show the whole world what He’d Become. He’d absorb all that Lecter could have been, engulf and eclipse him. 

The female of their unit came into the room and approached him. She crouched down at the side of his chair, looking up at him.

“Francis, I’m going to go into town for those parts. I can have a table set up by tomorrow evening at the earliest.”

“Fine.” 

“Thanks,” she replied.

Dolarhyde watched her walk away. She had a suck mark on the back of her knee. He thought, correctly, that Eileen did not appreciate Him. No one did, actually.

Standing from His chair, He tossed His trash into the black plastic garbage bag in the corner. They’d burn it in the morning so that there wouldn’t be any trace evidence left on it. 

“Leaving for the night?” Mandy asked, looking away from his conversation. 

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Want me get you if anything changes?”

“Mmm-hmm.” 

The four men returned their conversation, leaving Dolaryhyde to himself. Out of the room, down a hallway, up a flight of stairs to enter the first floor of the beachside house, then he climbed the main staircase to the second floor, where the assigned bedrooms were. His was on the south wing while everyone else’s were in the north. Once alone in His room, door locked, He undressed; Dolarhyde had bought toilet paper of the quick-dissolving kind used in boats and campers, and a nasal inhaler. He felt good despite His hay fever; left in only His boxer shorts, He went over to His bed and lie down. 

Francis looked up at the ceiling of His room. There was a gap in the wood planks, where the wood had separated due to warping and moisture from the ocean and summer storms. But this place wasn’t a permanent residence, just a temporary base. To anyone local who asked, they were a special rehab centre for alcoholics, poor lost souls looking to get their lives together while fixing up the decrepit old nursing home He’d inherited from Grandmother. Francis had been careful not to let anyone get militia vibes, forbidding any camo or army olive lest it be seen by some asshole joyriding on a boat around their location.

He wiped his nose with a sheet of toilet paper He’d torn off the roll next to His bed;like many people who have undergone extensive rhinoplasty, He had no hair in His nose and hay fever plagued Him. So did upper respiratory infections. But He felt good in spite of those things. Graham might not be the golden ticket item He’d originally sought, but He still made for a good consolatory prize. Another sheet of toilet paper was torn off and He wiped at His nose again. 

He was settling down for sleep, His mind running through the facts of the mission. All weapons had been cleaned and check for the night. Their stockrooms had been filled with supplies bought all over the nation. Nothing could be traced back to them. Had the honour of Presidency gone to the weak Chilton, they’d have grabbed his elderly mother. Had they taken Mrs Chilton to their compound, she would have been given her own room to reside in; she reminded Francis too much of Grandmother to dare keep her in the box built for Abigail Lecter.

He felt very powerful tonight, felt a satisfied exhaustion in His body now that He had the opportunity to finally relax. His guard wasn’t down, but He knew that tonight He’d be able to sleep comfortably with the knowledge that the first part of His plan was executed. No, He was too tired to jerk off. Maybe He could do that in the morning. 

Rolling over onto His side and adjusting His pillow under His neck properly, He allowed Himself to go to sleep.

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +”Break a leg” is a phrase commonly used in regards to a performance or speaking in front of an audience, meant to wish the performer/speaker good luck. 
> 
> +Fresno, California is a town in the central area  
> +The movie ‘Murder at 1600’ is about a Washington police detective investigating the murder of a White House aide within the White House, the President being the main suspect.   
> +The channels for nonAmericans:  
> Weather Channel (shows weather reports and covers natural disasters)  
> FOX (brings you shows such as Family Guy, the Simpsons, Bones, and Glee)  
> FOXNews (considered a conservative newstation, sister network to FOX)  
> ESPN (covers sports and news regarding sports, both American and International); MSNBC (considered a liberal-sympathetic news station that hosts Rachel Maddow, Morning Joe, Chris Hayes, and Reverand Al Sharpton, a sister network of NBC [which hosts Hannibal]); CNBC (a financial news station, sister network of NBC and MSNBC); TBN (“Trinity Broadcasting Network” an evangelical Christian channel that has news segments); ABC (brings you shows such as Modern Family, Good Morning America, The View)  
> GAC (“Great American Country” a country music-themed channel)  
> CNN (the original 24/7 news broadcasting station)
> 
> +So much love to all the comments and kudos. Honestly, they all made my day :)


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place December 6 through 10, 2013

Will had been dragged out of the box again, which was becoming something of a traumatising experience—every time they put him inside, he’d be upright, but then they’d tip the box onto it’s back, which was a fucking terrifying feeling when one was in a dark, small space. And whenever they pulled him up, the motions were in reverse, which wasn’t any better and incredibly disorienting. 

The hood had been placed over his head and he’d attempted to struggle a bit simply out of instinct, but he’d been elbowed so hard in the ribs he’d wanted to throw up. He’d wanted to count his steps, but his ankles were still ziptied and before it occurred to him to count the steps of the two men who had a hold on his upper arms, they’d already walked far enough that counting was fairly pointless. But to his surprise, when they did stop, he felt motion behind him and then his zipties around his wrists were cut. There was still a firm grip on his left upper arm and whomever was behind him said,

“I’m going to cut the zipties on your feet. If you try to do anything, we’re both going to bash your skull in. Understood?”

“No problem,” Will said, trying not to let his voice shake.

His ankles were then released and it took all his will power not to stretch them, worried that it might be interpreted as an attack. 

“Okay you’re standing right in front of a toilet.” 

The hands on his arms released him and Will felt his stomach flip, understanding that he was expected to relieve himself here with this hood on his head and fucking wannabe military types watching him.

“Can’t I take off the hood?” he asked. 

“No.”

“How do I know you’re not filming this?”

“You don’t.”

Will took a step back and held his hands up in front of him to show he wasn’t to be perceived as a threat. “I won’t. I know that your group would have no problem with humiliating me. This is a tactic they used in Abu Ghraib. I’m not participating in this willingly.”

There was a third voice, this time surprisingly feminine. “What’s going on?”

“He won’t piss. He’s afraid we’re filming him,” one of his captors scoffed. 

“Hold on, let me put on my ski mask.” The woman spoke once more. “Okay, you two go wait outside the door and I’ll stand watch.”

“I’m not doing it if you’re watching,” he snapped. 

“Look, it’s either this or you hold it,” she told him, sounding annoyed. 

“I want to speak to the Dragon,” Will said, hoping that he could use the distraction as a way to gather more information about his surroundings and to change the power dynamics between himself and these lesser ranking terrorists.

There was a pause. “Fine. But I hope you realise you’ve just made this harder on yourself.”

“Hold still and place your hands behind your back,” one of the men ordered.

His hands were bound roughly, but this time his feet were left unhindered and he took the gift of walking freely as a chance to count his steps out of the room and back in the direction in which he’d come from. He was still barefoot and naturally anxious to step where he couldn’t see, but he forced himself not to hesitate lest the people escorting him get rough.

There seemed to be lighting overhead—while he wasn’t able to see through the pillow case, he could certainly spot the bright points on the ceiling above him. They’d passed through another door and then down a long straight stretch that he could only assume was a hallway or corridor; the floor was cold and he kept stepping on bits of sand that had probably been tracked in by the militia’s boots. Finally they came to a stop and he nearly fell over at the lack of balance he had being hooded.

“Wait here.”

He could hear the woman walk off to the right and the hold on his arms tightened; the woman speaking to someone, whom Will could only assume was the man who identified himself as ‘the Dragon’. Then he was pulled into the direction of the voices, stumbling over his feet as he turned his head left and right, trying to gain some sort of clue as to where he was. The hood over his head was removed and he found himself facing a tall man who had a ski mask over his face. A hand gripped him by the hair hard, forcing him to face forward.

Glancing around quickly, he could only assume he was in some kind of stock room—there was an alarming amount of weapons on the wall, too many for him to identify properly with his limited knowledge of guns, but enough to know that these people had enough fire power to make them a serious threat to anyone who crossed them.  

“Mr Graham, I’ve been told you’re making a problem for my unit.” The man towered over Will—he was broad in the shoulders and obviously muscular, someone who probably _could_ break Will’s back if he wanted to.

Will swallowed hard and said as calm as he could manage, “Under the Third Geneva Convention, Part I, 4.1.4 of Article 4 states that ‘Civilians who have non-combat support roles with the military and who cary a valid identity card issued by the military they support’ are considered prisoners of war. I’m still employed by President Lecter, who is the Commander in Chief of the entire United States Military. I still have a valid ID card that states I’m a White House employee. So that makes me a prisoner of war.”

“And?” the man prompted.

“The President isn’t going to listen to a hostage threat—he _will_ listen to terms and conditions of a prisoner exchange.” Will tried to stand up a little straighter—he could feel that this man didn’t respect the weak. “If you’re declaring war against him, you have to treat it like war entirely.”

At this, the man smiled from behind his mask, revealing an incredibly jagged set of teeth. “Very clever, Mr Graham. That must be why he hired you.” 

Will felt a chill run through him. “Articles 13 through 16 state that I need to be treated humanely without any adverse discrimination and that my medical needs must be met.”

“He’s right,” the Dragon said in a mockingly serene voice.

“I have Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis,” Will explained, eyes struggling to make contact with the other man’s, but failing. “It requires a two year medication regimen—I’ve not completed it. I’m not going to finish until next August. I need my medication.”

“What will happen when you don’t get it?” the man asked. 

“My—it will cause a fever in my brain. I—I’ll start hallucinating. I’ll be very, very sick. My body will be attacking itself.”

Will could tell that the man’s eyebrows were raising beneath the ski mask. “And the President is aware of your condition?”

Will nodded. “He was the one who diagnosed it.”

The man smiled again and Will stared at the mess of teeth in the man’s mouth. “Then you have nothing to worry about. If he agrees it is as bad as you’re telling me, then he will have even more incentive to give us what we want.”

Will felt his heart beating faster, sensing the danger of giving asomeone who’s body was built for violence personal medical information. “I need aspirin—it’ll act as an inflammatory.”

“How do I know you’re not allergic to aspirin and trying to force us into a compromised position of letting you die and saving your life?”

“You probably have an EpiPen in your first aid kit, right?” he nodded his head as if it would make them agree with him. “If I stop breathing, then you can still save me.”

“Fine. When we let you out of the box again in eight hours, you’ll get your aspirin.” The man was obviously not kind, but seemed humoured that Will was as knowledgeable as he was. Will could feel it was going to come with repercussions, however. “Anything that you might need on top of that?”

“I’m not taking a piss with anyone watching,” Will spat, feeling his face burning.

At this, the man glanced over to a trash bag set over by the wall of stock room and grabbed an empty empty bottle from the top, tossing it over to the woman wearing the ski mask, but maintaining eye contact with Will. “Don’t spill it.” 

“Wait—“

The hood was yanked back over his head. 

“I’ll see you in eight hours, Mr Graham.”

“Wait!” he shouted as he was dragged away. 

*****

“Abigail, do you understand that sacrifices must be made?”

His daughter sat on the end of his bed; she’d brought him breakfast, which had been unexpected and Hannibal knew that she was certainly worried for him by the gesture. 

“Yes.”

He cracked the top of the soft boiled egg. “There is potential that Will’s only value right now is based on the belief that he is more special to you, than he is to me.”

She frowned, clearly distressed. “I really don’t want people thinking I’m sleeping with him.”

“They will think it regardless,” he pointed out. 

“But…” she trailed off, knowing better than to argue with him.

“I am sorry that your reputation will be jeopardised, though I must remind you that it was your insistence to go to Will’s for Thanksgiving that Miss Lounds even has a reason to do this to you.”

She looked up at him. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“The sooner Will is recovered, the sooner the record can be set straight.” He took a small taste of the egg—absolutely perfect. “I intend to make it public upon his recovery that he and I are in a relationship. We will be able to fix those false assumptions about your character at that point in time.”

“How do you know they won’t kill him based on the belief that they think he and I are together?” she asked, her morose tone disappearing somewhat. 

“They are assuming that I am not happy with him, but won’t let him die, as my voters won’t like that.” 

“So…if we keep give half-hearted protests about ‘he’s only a friend’…” she trailed off again; normally he wouldn’t allow her to leave a thought unfinished, but this morning it was to his benefit. 

“It is the temporary solution.”

She gave a small sigh, but said resolutely, “It will save his life and that’s what’s important.”

“I am sorry to ask. Losing one’s reputation for the sake of a greater good is never easy.” And truly, he did feel that it was unfortunate to happen this way. 

He started to eat the toast and egg, and she watched him for a moment before saying, “Do you remember when you asked me if I would ever be willing to give up my freedom? I’m not willing. But if it was for you or Will, I would.”

Hannibal did not find that noble as others might, but foolishly idealistic. He would never give up his freedom for her or Will—he would much rather kill them both and then take out as many law enforcement officers or agents until he was successfully killed. But being young and impressionable, she would naturally think that self sacrifice was a worthy cause, and he made the mental note to help her find a better way of thinking about that matter in particular.

*****

Bedelia sat in a humble room that boasted only practical furniture and a hideously out-of-fashion paint scheme; she was out-of-place here and grimaced at the curtains hanging on the wall above the modest twin bed—the calico fabric hid a painting on the brick wall of a window overlooking a field of flowers. It looked like something a child had painted and she’d hated it intensely. There was a bunker in a site designed to look like an oil field in west Oklahoma and she’d been taken to it for safe keeping; it was a relic of the time when the Atom bomb was the most terrifying scenario for a government meltdown and it was seventeen stories into the ground. Bedelia thought it would have been fine if they’d just taken her to Camp David or to her home in Boring, but they’d wanted her far removed from the east coast, putting her in a place no one would look.  

She’d been brought huevos rancheros for breakfast, something that one of her agents who’d specialised in cooking had cooked for her in the facility’s kitchen. It was delicious and she’d had it with an orange cream soda, a guilty pleasure that made her feel young. Alana had brought over a few magazines for Bedelia to look through before leaving to work on organising the massive list of events that had to be rescheduled for when she returned to the real world. 

Bedelia had already finished and delegated the work that she’d needed to work on, and aside from the occasional fax from her office or her cousin’s, she’d been left with mostly nothing to do. Always willing to make the best of a situation, she’d decided to take the time to treat herself as though she was in a spa: at the moment she was dressed in her monogramed terry cloth robe and wearing the matching head band as a bee venom facial treatment soaked into her skin. She’d lit candles on the small pressed board desk and she was reclining in the office chair with her feet propped up on the bed’s coverlet, her new pedicure drying. 

At least she was able to make phone calls out—her agents had anxiously reminded her that she couldn’t say anything that might allude to where she’d been taken and she’d patronisingly reminded them that she had no intention of admitting she was out on the prairie. She had every intention of making her weekly call to her cousin Maria, and had been filled with relief when the other woman had picked up the phone.

After exchanging their usual niceties, Marie cut straight to the chase, wanting answers to something that everyone in their extended family was talking about. 

“Bedelia, I know they sounds a little inconsiderate, but why did Hannibal allow Abbie to have a relationship with a man twenty years older than her?”

“I assure you that Abigail is not in an illicit affair with Will Graham.” Bedelia had answered this question at least fifty times by now and she’d grown very weary of it.

Maria continued. “I just worry, because she’s so sweet and trusting, and I’d hate to find out someone was taking advantage of her. Why was she at his house, then? Lounds said she stayed over the night. Hannibal told us she had the flu.”

Bedelia found that the story she was telling was a desperately contained truth that sounded like a lie. “Mr Graham lacks family, and both Hannibal and Abigail knew he’d be spending the holiday alone.”

“Well, we would have been more than happy to host him. Surely Hannibal knew that.”

Bedelia sighed and leaned back in her chair, studying her manicure. “You know how delicate our sweet cousin is. He didn’t want to impose on the family and when our darling Abigail found out Mr Graham’s situation, she offered to stay behind so he could have company for the holiday. Mr Graham refused, but you know how Hannibal and Abigail are; they couldn’t bear to think of him alone while they spent time with the rest of us. So they decided Abigail could remain behind, as Hannibal would attract too much attention. They are really _too_ compassionate, if we’re being honest. Their hearts bleed for the meek. So giving, so _selfless_.”

“Oh, Hannibal.” Her cousin sighed fondly. “I’ll need to call him and tell him that…Well, when Mr Graham is rescued, we’re going to insist that he join us at Hyannis Port for Christmas.”

Bedelia rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”

“And how is the quest to find him?” Maria asked in a quieter tone, as though Will Graham’s kidnapping were a precious secret that no one wished to know more about. 

“Fair to partially cloudy,” she admitted.

“If there is anything Hannibal needs to get him back that the family can help with, please don’t let Hannibal hesitate to ask.” 

Bedelia smiled and tried to imagine a world where Hannibal Lecter didn’t get exactly what he wanted. 

*****

“Any good news?” Jimmy asked. He’d taken a package of juice boxes from the canteen and was on the second mango juice box; these had probably been bought for children visitors to the White House, but honestly he didn’t care at this point—Will Graham’s well being were way more important than some kid’s feelings getting hurt that there wasn’t anything fruity to drink.

Beverly was stapling a stack of reports to be filed away in the archive of ‘what did the President of the United States do today?’, signing her initials in the corner of each page. “Well, Agent Perlman is going to be the new Mr Beverly Katz if he keeps wearing those pants.” She looked back at him and shrugged her shoulders despondently. “It’s a disaster. We have basic intel and nothing more.”

Jimmy shook his head. “We’re fucked.”

“We’ll pull through.” She didn’t sound very convinced.

Jimmy had spent the morning at the Treasury Department discussing with the other senior agents in the Uniformed Division what the plan was if a worst case scenario occurred; he felt it only fair to tell Katz now. “If Will dies, we’ve prepared to move the First Family out to Hyannis, so they can grieve in private. I can’t imagine Abigail returning to work in the first year, if ever.”

She paused in signing the papers. “How long will they stay there?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Fuck, the last thing we need is for the President to finally meet his soulmate and have him taken away. They’ve barely had six months together. This could fuck up his whole term.” Bev had never really been shy about admitting that she truly, _truly_ believed that Lecter was the best President in decades. “He’d do the job, but what would he be like once it’s all over? He’s lost his parents, his sister, had to save Abigail, watched Will almost bleed to death in September…” 

Jimmy could remain objective about tragedy in other’s lives but even he had to admit that this was overkill, if the pun could be excused. 

“They’ve kept Verger on the detail, though,” he said, lowering his voice. 

“I know. Weird, right? I mean, I know that teams don’t always end up BFFs, but I really don’t like her. She’s not one of us.”

He nodded and lowered his voice even further after confirming no one was close enough to listen in on them. “Want to know what’s really weird though? Barney, John, Clint, and I all made the suggestion that with Verger’s family history with the President, we wanted her off the detail. But we were told it wasn’t an option, that there were specific orders to keep her on. Higher ups.”

Beverly’s eyes widened. “Like the Treasury or the President?”

“I think the President.”

She frowned. “Why would he want to keep her around?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s trying to give her a fair chance, you know, not wanting to accuse someone of being guilty by association.”

“I don’t know, but I’m not feelin’ it. There’s a time for love and kumbaya, but this isn’t it.” Bev leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. “We need to get her off the detail. Saul showed me a list of places that are going under surveillance and her brother’s estate is one of them, and I know for a fact that up until the kidnapping, she would go over there every single morning, rain or shine.”

He raised an eyebrow, starting to smile. “Saul?”

She grinned at him. “I’m not kidding—I am going to marry that fine piece of reformed ass. My mom will love him and he’s going to look great on my new Chesterfield sofa.” 

He smirked and saw that Verger had come into the office to switch out for her lunch break. He nodded his head towards her direction as he drank from the juice box and Beverly followed his gaze. She sat back in her chair and as he looked at his fellow agent, he wondered what she was plotting. 

*****

Abigail was stretched out on one of the couches in the Oval Office, waiting for her father to return, while Georgia sorted through plans the flower department had sent up to her for final confirmation of Christmas decorations; Abigail had no idea how anyone could think she cared about the holidays at this point and was busying herself by listening to the voicemails her family had been leaving her, which mostly consisted of, _“Of course we believe you when you say nothing happened between you and Graham, but if something_ ** _did_** _, you know you could tell us, right?”_. It was insulting and she was glad she’d taken a nearly a week before listening to any of them. 

When her father returned, she sat up and he gave her a small smile that for a moment filled her hope that some sort of good news was to be imparted, but when he spoke, she knew immediately that Will was not the focus of what he was to say. 

“Mrs Madchen and dear Uncle Jack have made arrangements for you to take your final in a secure location tomorrow. Professor Foster shall oversee the testing.”

She’d not been expecting that at all, had completely forgotten about the testing in fact, but was as pleased as she could possibly be given the circumstances. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Abigail.”

*****

The hood was pulled off Will’s head after he’d been marched into the room that he’d been told had a toilet and had been surprised to see a privacy screen put up on one side, the kind that hospitals had in exam rooms. The last time he’d been able to relieve himself had been whenever he’d been kidnapped and his bladder felt about to burst; thankfully due to dehydration from not having been provided anything to drink or eat in his time here, he’d been able to hold it for this long. He had been left with the empty bottle in his box, but his hands had been bound behind his back still and it had taken a while to maneuver around inside the cramped quarters so that he could bring them around to the front. He was also a few years away from his fortieth birthday and flexibility was no longer as easy for him as it once was, so he’d ended up with his right ankle trapped on the ziptie, which pulled painfully at his wrists. He’d been trapped for god knew how long in that position until he finally forced himself to work his way through the pain and discomfort, and managed to bring both legs through his hands, which brought his hands to the front of his body. He’d been left shaking and panting with exhaustion, his hands swollen from poor circulation and his shoulders stinging. Then—to his utter disgust—he found the bottle had no lid, which meant it was going to spill at some point and thusly a completely pointless resource. When he’d been taken out of the box (and he could only assume it was eight hours later, as time in holding seemed infinite), he’d been ready to use the toilet no matter who was watching. 

“Happy, princess?” a shorter masked man sneered. 

“If you’re looking for a ‘thank you’, you’re not getting one,” Will said tightly.

“You’d better say ‘thank you’ or we’re going to take it away,” he warned.

Will was willing to lose this battle after having spent at least a day away from a bathroom. 

“Thank you,” he muttered, feeling defeated. 

His ankles were cut free as were his wrists and after allowing the men a few seconds to step away from him, he hurried over to the toilet. Once he was finished, he moved over to a small sink and ran his hands under the freezing cold water. This was his opportunity to covertly scan the room for anything he might be able to use to his advantage in either a fight or escape. There was a mirror above the sink—unbreakable glass, like the type used in prisons and on the far wall was a tiled with a drain in the center of the floor; hand rails around the tile area suggested it was a shower. The whole room gave off hospital vibes to Will—old fashioned, clinical, and the sterile white that in fact wasn’t as sterile as one might hope it would be when barefoot.

His hands were recuffed in front of his body and the hood placed over his head once more, but Will considered himself more passive now, just wanting to go back to the box and sleep and think. But his feet were left loose and when they went back to the room he was certain he was being held in, he had pressure placed on the back of his knees by a boot, until he was forced to comply with the kneeling position. 

“What’s going on?” he demanded, starting to feel anxious. 

“You’re going back on camera. Time to tell him what we want.”

“Fuck you—the President doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.” 

This earned him a sharp jab in the ribs and he doubled over in pain, using it as an excuse to fall to the ground. His hands quickly probed the floor, trying to find any clue about the concrete or possibly something he could save away for later like a fallen bit of metal or plastic. 

“Pick him up,” a familiar voice ordered and Will felt himself hoisted back onto his knees. 

The hood was pulled off and he found himself in staring up at the Dragon; the man was holding a copy of the New York Times on it with a full page photo collage of Miriam Lass, Clarice Starling, and himself with the words “IS THIS REDDRAGON?” written across in bold red.

“It appears the third time’s the charm,” the Dragon said and Will saw the date of the newspaper as the sixth, which was a relief because it meant he’d only been here two days.

“You killed Clarice Starling and Miriam Lass?” Will asked, trying not to sound snide.

“No, but I won’t deny it publicly.” The Dragon handed the newspaper over to a subordinate to hold in front of the camera and handed Will a piece of lined notebook paper. “You will read everything on that paper exactly how it’s written. If you try to change anything, I’ll start cutting off your fingers.”

Will had no intention of testing him. “Got it.”

The Dragon had a rifle and one of the masked men went over to the camera set up on the tripod facing them. Large lights were turned on and Will flinched at how bright they were.

The Dragon began to speak. “President Lecter, you have a very intelligent man you call your friend. Too bad your daughter considers him her friend, too.” Will grimaced at that remark. “He as informed me that you won’t meet the ransom for a hostage, but that you would talk about a prisoner exchange. I am willing to trade Will Graham as long as my conditions are met. The first set of conditions will be listed today. You have one week to comply. If you fail to comply, you will regret it.”

Will remained silent. The lights were giving him a headache and he blinked uncomfortably until the muzzle of the rifle brushed against his jaw, causing him to shudder. 

“Read.” 

Will lifted up the piece of paper and began to recite what had been written down. “The following political prisoners will be released and pardoned for their crimes: Charles Ray Polk, American patriot; Joseph Martin Bailie, American patriot; Eric Robert Rudolph, American patriot; Charles Barbee, Robert Berry, Jay Merrell, and Brian Ratigan, good Christian men; Darren Huff, American patriot; Raymond Peake and Thomas Tuso, American patriots; Donny Eugene Mower, protecter of unborn life and good Christian man; Ralph Lang, protecter of unborn life; Frederick Thomas, Samuel J Crump, Dan Roberts, and Ray H Adams, American patriots; Pfc. Isaac Aguigui, Pfc. Michael Burnett, Pvt Christopher Salmon, and Sgt Anthony Peden, good soldiers; Anson Chi, American patriot; Richard Schmidt, American patriot; Frazier Glenn Miller, American patriot and Green Beret.”

Will’s eyes jumped down to the next paragraph. “These men have been accused of crimes against the government. In actuality—” Will paused and swallowed hard before continuing on, feeling the rifle barrel nudging his cheek. “In actuality, they have been unfairly treated by the so-called justice system. If Abel Gideon can be released, there is no reason that these men fighting for the freedom of this country should be unlawfully detained any longer.”

That was it—poorly written and Will could point out a dozen different ways it could have been presented better, but all he did was look up at the man pointing the rifle at his head to see what was required of him next. 

“Now talk to him,” the Dragon murmured. 

Shit. Will knew that he needed to think of a way to give Hannibal information secretly, anything that might be of use. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he lied, trying to buy himself time. 

This made the Dragon take the safety off his rifle. “You have three seconds. I won’t kill you, but I can blow your jaw off. Then you won’t have to worry about talking ever again.”

Will thought of all the weapons these maniacs had stockpiled.

He thought of the book he’d given to Hannibal for his birthday.

“Hannibal, do what they ask,” he pleaded, thinking of something he’d forgotten to erase from the pages of the book, something he’d once dreaded Hannibal finding. “I don’t know where I am. I can’t see anything changing their minds.” The Dragon’s rifle nudged his cheek once more and knowing that these men wanted to see him humiliated, he allowed his voice to tremble. “I was so wrong to doubt them. I was so wrong. Please, Hannibal.” He began to blink out the code, hoping it looked natural, as though the light was too bright in his eyes or like he was fighting back tears. A page number. “I don’t want to die like this.” If fortune was to smile upon him, they wouldn’t leave just the audio in the video clip, but they’d show him, too. Everything hinged on it.

*****

After the filming of the video concluded, Will was given a bottle of water to drink, which he did in heaving gulps and then a second along with a Clif bar. As he ate it, savouring the minute chocolate chips and the sticky grains that held the bar together, he studied the box that he was being held in, hoping to find any sort of clue that might indicate how he could escape. It was industrial black plastic, like a case that musicians might haul their equipment in and there was some sort of generator behind it that seemed to be pumping in fresh air and controlling the climate inside. There was a simple latch holding it together, but it was padlocked and Will knew that even at full health, he could never break his way out of it. 

Behind him, he could hear the woman of the group talking softly. “Well, they moved his girlfriend.”

Girlfriend? A millisecond barely passed before he understood that the men here believed Hannibal was sleeping with Bedelia. Gross, but not unexpected—there’d been rumours of vaguely incestuous liaisons between the two marriage-related cousins, many people unable to believe that a successful adult might not want to have a long term romantic relationship.

“Eh, Du Maurier is too much trouble,” one of the men commented, confirming Will’s suspicions.

Will pretended to be focused on his food and not eves dropping. “Now she is. It’d be impossible to get her at this point.”

 _‘You think I’m difficult to deal with. Imagine having her,’_ he thought to himself, imagining her in his place. Bedelia Du Maurier had something resembling a conscious and if what he’d seen in her eyes was real, then she also felt fear. If she’d been taken, he could imagine her as frightened and desperate as he was at the moment. 

“Probably Camp David.”

“Fuck it. We already have him. Gotta be worth something.”

One of the ski masked men brought over another water bottle to him and he was hoisted to his feet. 

“You gotta make this last till morning, because it’s all you’re getting.”

“Can I have my aspirin?” Will called out, careful not to sound demanding. 

The man who’d brought him the water fished a small orange packet out of his pocket that bore the Tylenol logo, a travel size serving. Will accepted the packet as his legs were tied together once more and he was hauled back to the box, this time one bottle of water wealthier. 

*****

Hannibal stood at the window of his bedroom that overlooked a dark Washington DC skyline. Winston sat at his feet, leaning his body and head against Hannibal’s leg, looking up at him. Hannibal brushed his hand along the dog’s head, which caused the dog’s tail to thump softly on the carpet. In the past few days, the dog had been more needy of attention, no doubt sensing that something was off and that the humans within the White House were all upset over something. Hannibal had been using the dog as a barrier between himself and others—he would use the excuse of taking Winston out on a walk to get away from anyone who wanted to talk to him about his feelings, and he’d have Abigail see to the dog’s needs when she was starting to feel sorry for herself.

“I don’t know where he is, but I promise the moment I find him, he will be brought home to the two of us,” he promised the dog. 

*****

Abigail sometimes dreamt of her father and Will:

Her father is dressed in riding pinks, elegant Lithuanian nobility. She’s dressed in her dressage outfit, a black flocked helmet on top of her head so that if she falls off, she won’t crack her skull open and spill out all the secrets inside. 

“The hunt, Abigail!” he announces. 

She laughs gaily as their elegant horses rear in slow motion and then they are thundering through a forest so quickly that the trees blur. They jump massive cracks in the earth that take hours to pass over and she can feel the heat of her steed’s body through the leather of the saddle, a living furnace and she can hear the flames roaring it its lungs. 

They cross bleak, grey wastelands together and she can hear the trumpets of Revelations blasting loudly from the heavens. And then they’re inside a forest again, quiet and on foot. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and her father holds delicately onto every strand with a thousand different hands. 

They spot him—the fox. They stalk him carefully, the air rippling around them as they move through the trees that part like hanging strands of spider webs. She has a dagger in her hand and her grip on it tightens as they approach him. He’s so young and fresh and tear tracks wet his delicate cheeks. He looks like he’s been painted by Botticelli himself.

“Please, help me,” Will begs, pointing to his US passport on the ground. 

Her father raises his rifle and points it at the young man. “We will.”

*****

Abigail wasn’t exactly thrilled to have to go take her test for her course at GWU, but she was incredibly grateful that her father had even given her the opportunity to do so. And she’d made him promise to bring her back to the White House immediately if something changed in regards to Will, good or bad. No test was worth missing an update.

As she sat at the kitchen counter—her father was preparing them both a light breakfast—Barney was informing her of the schedule for the day. 

“Everyone in the White House will be taking a polygraph today. Started about two this morning. Cleared all the cleaning staff first, now moving onto the secretarial office workers—and anyone who didn’t come into work today is going to be in for a hell of a surprise when agents come knocking at their door to take them down to the Treasury Department. Only way anyone can get out of it is to be in a coma.”

“I want to take one,” she told him as her father set out one orange juice and three coffees—the juice for her, one for him, one for Barney, and one for Georgia, who was sitting in a corner of the kitchen, quietly on the phone with her mother.

“Why?” Barney asked as he took his cup.

“I want to see what it’s like.”

He shook his head. “I can schedule a meeting with one of the polygraphists later.”

“Do you have to take one?” She passed him the small container of cream.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Are you worried?”

He shook his head as he stirred the cream into his coffee. “No. I have to take these every year.”

“So you know how to pass them.” Before he could take it the wrong way, she added, “I don’t think you had anything to do with it. But I just think that there are obviously people employed here that do know how to pass them.”

There was a small eyelash amidst the pulp of her orange juice and she knew it only could have been her father’s. Glancing up at him to make sure he wasn’t watching, she quickly brought the glass to her lips and drank down, cannibalism.

*****

Will sometimes dreamt of Abigail and Hannibal:

He stands in the White House at dusk. The building is empty and he can sense Hannibal and Abigail close so he is quiet and waits. Soon they appear, dressed in their finest for a night at the Meyerhoff. The large stag walks between them, his massive hooves thundering across the tile. There’s a saddle on its back, a pair of boots in the stirrups facing backwards. It’s a riderless horse. A stag, but it’s supposed to be a riderless horse. He wonders if it’s supposed to be for him. 

Hannibal, Abigail, and the large beast don’t notice him and the shadows sound like the rustle of cymbals. They pass by walking towards the setting sun. Will follows, though his limbs feel like they’re dragging through water. Abigail turns to look at him and he can see even from this distance that her eyes are cloudy with death and her lips no longer have colour. The gown she wears has not been dyed the deep red, but stained from the blood spilt by the late Mr Hobbs. 

Will thinks he might be able to save her.

Hannibal is not a man, but an old god amusing himself among humans, sitting in a high back leather arm chair, watching them with an amused smile. Will looks at who’s he’s holding in his arms and realises it’s Abigail. He has a knife to her throat and she’s crying.

“Daddy, please don’t!”

“Do you see?” Will asks, unable to comprehend why Hannibal would want to make him into this. 

But Hannibal doesn’t attempt to stop him, merely moves his eyes over to the young woman. “Abigail, don’t struggle. It will make it more difficult for him to bleed you out.”

Will brings the knife quickly across her throat and blood sprays across Hannibal’s face as Abigail’s screams are cut short. He releases her and she stumbles forward, turning around to look at him. The blood is draining from her quickly and something hard hits him in the back of the head—a fire extinguisher. Hannibal stands above him and waves to the inaugural crowd who cheer that they have finally elected a St George to slay the Dragon.

*****

It was raining by the time Abigail finished her breakfast and she’d gone to her room to dress for the day. Weather such as this required specialty pieces; the particular piece of clothing she wanted had been packed up in tissue paper from an old Chanel purse and packed into plain box. There was a cheap polyurethane trench coat that she’d bought in a whim while on the campaign trail. While her father abhorred anything plastic on clothing as a principle, he’d smiled at the sight of it, clearly reminded of the plastic full body suits they wore when they abducted people or staged a display of a body. It made her feel like Patrick Bateman and she flexed in front of her mirror after she put it on.

“Is that a raincoat?” she asked herself in the mirror. “Yes, it is!” 

She blew a kiss to herself. When she watched ‘American Psycho’ for the first time, Abigail had felt a tension in her body leave, one that had taken residence in her chest since she could first remember. Patrick was a freak, but she understood him. She understood what it was like to take a life, to not be afraid to take a life, that one should want a sense of discipline for themselves, that sometimes people got in the way. She’d smiled and cuddled with her father as she compared herself to Patrick—she could feel her own superiority to him in certain ways and it made her feel very good. His life was filled with boring distractions and vulgarities, but lord, did he try to make himself a better person. He lacked the subtlety she knew was required to keep people like them alive and his desire to fit in for the sake of fitting in wasn’t appealing, but she knew what it was like to want to find others like oneself to be with. Like her father.

Patrick was also cruel to the wrong people, which she wasn’t able to wrap her head around, and he hurt animals, which immediately made her a better person than him. _“An animal cannot appreciate its suffering the way a human can. That is why it is a waste to spend time on them,”_ her father told her and she’d nodded against his shoulder, holding his hand tightly as she worried about the life of the little kitten on the screen. She also hated the way Patrick talked just to hear his own voice and when he killed, he lost all of his composure, which always made she and her father cringe. Plus, he was constantly comparing himself to other people in the most immature ways. Killing someone out of jealousy? How petty. If she were a brat, she would have wanted to tease him until he cried about it. 

But at the end of the day, Patrick Bateman’s character struck a chord and thinking of him was no different than thinking of an old acquaintance, a dinner guest whose company she’d enjoyed. 

Her thoughts were caught up in thoughts of Patrick Bateman as she traveled to the secure location; the car’s stereo played Whitney Houston’s debut album, which her father had bought as a result of the movie. Surprisingly they both enjoyed it and usually after watching the film, the music was put on rotation for the few days following. The secure location turned out to be at the Treasury Department’s Secret Service conference room. Her plastic trench coat handed off to Georgia, she found Professor Foster sitting at the head of the large composite wood table, her expression grim; Abigail attempted a smile, but it came out as a grimace.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said after Professor Foster gave her the essay prompt and the standard blue test notebook to write in.

Foster gave a short nod and indicated that Abigail had two hours starting now. Georgia and Barney sat politely on the other side of the room and as Abigail picked up the pencil to begin writing in the notebook she’d been issued, both gave her encouraging smiles. She nodded and began to write.

 _‘Political Science Methodology: Quantitative and Qualitative Techniques, by Abigail Lecter’_ …

*****

Ardelia knew she had absolutely nothing to hide from the Secret Service about _anything_ , but for some reason, the random drug tests and now the mandatory polygraph had her absolutely on edge, certain they were going to think she was guilty of _something_. 

“I’m going to need you to relax, Miss Mapp,” said the woman who sat on the other side of the office that had been designated a testing site.

“I’m trying,” she promised, her palms starting to sweat.

This weird machine she’d been hooked up to was only making the situation worse—it was uncomfortable and the restricting. The first round of questions wasn’t so bad, just simple _‘is Ardelia Mapp your real name?’_ and _‘do you own a Portuguese water dog named Sunny?’_ , basic things that were in her personal file. But when the questions became more apparent at their intent to find weakness within her, she found herself panicking again.

“Have you ever wanted to harm the President?” the agent-who’d-not-identified-exactly-what-department-she’d-come-from asked. 

“No.”

Ardelia watched the agent stare at the sheet of paper and make a small dash before asking the next question. 

“Have you ever wanted to harm the First Family?”

“No,” she said a little firmer.

The agent paused then looked up at her and then back down at the paper.

“I’m not!” Ardelia insisted. “I would never do anything to hurt the President or his family!”

She wanted to cry.

“Just answer the questions and remain calm, please.

*****

Hannibal held Abigail’s hand in his as he considered the lingering flavour of the strawberry mousse he’d filled the celebratory cake with that he’d made while she was off taking her first university exam; while he was hopeful that she’d be dissuaded from continuing secondary education on her own, he was still very proud that she’d accepted the challenge of a finals exam. And he was certain that Will would have been ecstatic knowing that Abigail had taken the test, fretting over her grade, but encouraging her nevertheless. 

He sat with his daughter in Situation Room, watching over the day’s briefing concerning the currant analyse of the hostage video. They’d been unable to pinpoint the exact upload of the video as it had run through various proxies that finally ended in South Africa.

“Is there audio software available that can remove the modulation of that man’s voice?” Hannibal wanted to hear his opponent speak. 

“There is, but this wasn’t run through just one voice mod, but two. We can’t pinpoint the exact tone of the man’s voice,” one of the advisors replied.

“Have you been able to get estimates on any of their heights?” Abigail asked. It was a simply, but practical question. 

“Nothing definite, but we know this guy has to be pretty tall. We’ve done a cross comparison of Will Graham’s estimated height here and then of this AR-15 that the speaker is holding, but because of the modifications made to it, it’s give or take a few inches. We’re looking at a man who’s about six foot four.”

“And there is still no idea who this organisation is?” Hannibal asked, careful not to let his frustration show.

“No—they’ve literally come out of no where.”

No, they certainly had not. Whomever had started this had certainly invested a large amount of money in this group and Hannibal wondered if it was his old friend Mason Verger.

*****

Barney led Abigail with him to the Secret Service’s training gym in the first sub-basement of the White House. “Okay, I don’t want you to be alarmed, but you’re going to have to be taught self-defense. Your dad, too.” 

“Like karate?” she asked and he could see she was trying not to laugh.

“Please don’t let them see you laugh,” he reminded. “No, you’ll be taught evasive techniques and then if it comes down to it, how to escape.” 

She nodded. “Okay.”

The gym was mostly empty as all agents were focused on the recovery of Will Graham and Barney thought that was perfect timing to get out one of the practice forms to demonstrate all the places to hit. “Every part of you can be used as a weapon,” he told her as he pulled out the sparring gloves and tossed them over in her direction. “And I’m going to teach you all the good stuff so that if you’re ever need to defend yourself you’re going to get out of there freely.” “If you have access to their face, gouge their eyes. Use your fingernails to tear any skin you can reach. Remember, there are no rules when it comes to fighting. Any part that’s vulnerable is fair game and should be exploited. All bare skin, the groin—you can still kick a woman in the crotch and it hurts enough to debilitate if done with enough force.” He dragged one of the sparring mats over to the large practice form by the punching bags. “Testicles, eyes, throat—you can pinch or jab the inner thigh, inside of the upper arm and it will make someone let you go immediately.”

He turned around, ready to help her into the sparring gloves so she could practise with him on the standing body form and saw her eyes were watering. “What’s wrong?”

She wasn’t looking at him, picking her finger on the glove. “I was just thinking that it’s pretty shitty that Will didn’t know any of this.”

“Will’s going to be okay Abigail.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “And while I didn’t know him personally, I bet you anything that since he’s been kidnapped, he’s praying you know how to get away from people like REDDRAGON.”

She nodded and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

Feeling guilty for pressuring her into something that was probably startling and foreign to her, he suggested, “I won’t have you spar today. Why don’t I just walk you through the basics?”

*****

While he knew Abigail was being taught self-defense by Agent Matthews (something he’d taught her many years ago, though it would hurt for her to have her memory refreshed), Hannibal was preparing dinner for the night in the Residence’s kitchen, his mind burdened with concern over how much longer he’d have to wait for the next video of Will. 

Katz was with him, watching patiently from her vantage point at the breakfast counter; from the way she stared at Agent Perlman during the meetings in the command post he’d set up, Hannibal was certain she had started to take a liking to him, though she had enough decorum not to attempt to flirt while in the middle of an investigation. Hannibal considered this information to be potentially useful to him in the future, his mind creating dozens of plans and scenarios in which to exploit the two agents to his advantage. 

As he went to the refrigerator to gather a few of the ingredients for the stuffed lamb shanks he would be preparing,Hannibal glanced at the cake on the centre shelf; it had been one of the best he’d ever made and he suspected it had been the extra vanilla and egg to the cake batter. Taking the cake out to indulge in another slice, he considered that he could offer one to Agent Katz as well. She wasn’t allowed to eat on the job, but Hannibal was certain he could tempt her, if just for the sake of tempting. With a clean knife, he cut himself a slice of Abigail’s celebration cake and then one for the agent, plating them on the lovely White House china dessert. It was a shame it wasn’t Miriam Lass he was offering the dessert to—he could imagine how she’d turn him down firm and polite, but then stare longingly at the food.

But Katz—while incredibly disciplined—was someone who knew when and where to bend the rules. Hannibal placed her cake beside her with a napkin and dessert fork.

She looked down at it and then back up at him, one brow raised. “Are you sure? I’m on duty.”

“Well, if every line of defense has failed and we are left with you eating cake, I’m afraid the White House will have bigger problems that simply your break of protocol.”

Hannibal abhorred when people stood at the counter and ate, and only tolerated when Will had done it because he’d found it so _quaint_ , so he gestured for her to sit down and she thankfully did. Out of etiquette, he wanted until she had the first bite and she nodded in approval of the dessert.  

As she lifted her fork up for a second bite, she said, “You can admit it—I’m your favourite.”

Hannibal offered her a rare smile. “No—you are Will’s favourite. There is a very big distinction.”

“How can you be so calm? If it were my boyfriend, I’d be going Rambo on this town.”

He scooped up a delicate amount of cake. “There is nothing I can do while I don’t know where he is. It would be a waste of my energy to focus on more than what has been presented to me. I am certain that when Will is recovered, whether dead or alive, I will have justice for him and for myself.”

She seemed satisfied with that, though he knew she still wanted more emotion from him.

“Your assistant failed her poly,” Katz informed him.

Hannibal wasn’t concerned in the slightest. “She was merely nervous. I don’t believe in the efficiency of polygraph tests. You could ask me if I am the Easter Bunny and I would pass.”

“ _Are_ you the Easter Bunny?”

Hannibal wiggled his nose in reply.

“You need to be careful—Jimmy would totally change your call sign to ‘Easter Bunny’ or ‘Peter Rabbit’,” Katz warned. 

“Agent Katz, Ardelia Mapp has nothing to do with my Will’s disappearance. Unless she is the greatest actress to ever live, she is not a criminal mastermind responsible.” He sliced into his cake piece and said very matter-of-factly, “And Agent Price knows better than to change my call sign.”

There was silence between them for a moment and then she told him, “I passed mine with flying colours.” 

“I should hope so.”

She then lost her humourous tone, the space between her brows knotting slightly. “Why do you want Verger on your detail?”

“She is not guilty of anything her brother has done,” he reminded.

“How do you know that she’s not up to something with him?” Katz’s paranoia was well founded in Hannibal’s eyes and he knew that it might work against her in the future.

“Have you ever met Mason?” He paused, allowing her to shake her head. “She has the choice to ally herself with me or with him. I am confident that his influence of her is not interfering with her ability to do this job.” 

*****

When Abigail arrived for breakfast, she bumped into Miss Mapp who’d been checking her BlackBerry.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Abigail apologised, though didn’t really feel the words—her mind was a million miles away it seemed. 

But her father’s personal assistant seemed insistent on Abigail not apologising. “No, it’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”

“Miss Mapp, I must insist that you relax,” her father said as they both entered the kitchen. “Sit and have some tea.”

“Is everything all right?” Abigail asked cautiously as she watched the woman sit at the counter, very on edge. 

“It isn’t anything you need to worry about, Abigail,” her father assured.

As Abigail accepted the answer with the decision to pursue it later, her own assistant entered the kitchen. “Good morning, everyone.”

“Good morning, Georgia. How are you?” her father asked as he motioned for Abigail to start slicing fruit he’d set out.

“I’m fine. Morning, Abbs.”

“Good morning,” she replied, annoyed that her assistant hadn’t asked how her father had been as well.

Georgia and Ardelia began to chat with one another while she and her father prepared breakfast for the four of them. A few times her stomach twisted into knots at the thought of doing this for Will, but he might not ever get to join them again. Once the breakfast was ready, she and her father carried the food out to the dining room and they began to eat. 

The food was complimented by all and Abigail thought about how Will would so shamelessly take seconds, that she’d feel delight knowing he liked something she’d hunted. 

As Abigail poured herself more coffee and ate another slice of toast, her father told her, “We shall be attending the two funerals today—one for Agent Thompson and one for Agent Martinez.”

“ _Why? They didn’t stop those people from taking Will,_ ” she replied in Lithuanian. 

“ _Will can survive kidnapping. He cannot survive the media. They protected him from the paparazzi,_ ” he explained. “ _I know you are upset. But we must._ ”

She didn’t think that was fair at all. “I’ll have someone bring down my mourning clothes, then. Georgia, will you tell an usher to get them for me?”

“I’ll have it done right now,” Georgia replied, pulling out her phone to text the usher’s office. 

And when breakfast was finished, she found the garment bag containing her mourning outfit waiting in her room, smelling only a bit like mothballs. As she changed out of her clothes into the solid black uniform, she thought about how Will had tried to teach her how to fix a boat engine when they’d been on vacation, how he’d looked so relaxed and in his element, that she’d known she’d wanted to be his family forever. 

Locked in the bathroom, she stuck her fingers into her hair and scraped her nails across her scalp hard; squeezing her eyes shut at the pain, she kept scratching in long, hard pulls until she knew she’d cut the fragile skin open. Shaking, she washed her hands off of the blood and hair products, then carefully patted down the disrupted parts of her hair, smoothing everything out so that she looked perfectly in place. 

She had a wide brimmed hat with a veil in front of it; her father thought it was terribly chic and she liked that it obscured most of her face from the paparazzi. Mascara had been applied liberally to her lashes so that when she forced a few tears for the dead agent, it would be more apparent that she was mourning their loss. She’d done the same thing for Marissa, though her crying had been real.  

The motorcade the funeral wasn’t as bad as she’d expected; the weather was very sunny, though incredibly cold and as she stood in the cemetery beside her father, surrounded by agents both uniform and otherwise, she had to wonder if the dead agent’s family blamed her for the reason their loved one was dead. After all, if it hadn’t been for the stupid article about her and Will, he wouldn’t have even needed protection in the first place.

Before the casket was lowered in the ground and after the flag had been presented to Agent Thompson’s husband, Abigail handed over a bouquet of red chrysanthemums to him. 

“I am so sorry for your loss,” she said softly.

He nodded, looking exhausted and drawn. “Thank you.”

“Agent Thompson was a very fine agent and we will be forever grateful for her service and her sacrifice,” she commended. “We’ll make sure her killers are brought to justice.”

“Thank you,” he repeated, his smile half-hearted.

The next funeral they had to attend was two hours later and thankfully they were able to stay inside a church, as the wind outside had picked up. Abigail sat on the uncomfortable pew beside her father, a bouquet of large white camellias in her arms to give to Martinez’s wife later.

“Why is Miss Mapp upset?” she whispered to him, as they waited for the service to start.

“She failed her polygraph, though it was because of her nerves. Now she is worried that she is a suspect,” he whispered back.

“Is she?”

“They will be required to perform a follow up investigation of her, but they’ll find nothing troublesome in her past.”

Abigail nodded, settling back against the pew. “That’s good. I like her.”

“So do I.”

As the church began to fill with the sound of hymns being played by the organ player, she considered that her life shouldn’t be measured in milestones, but in body counts. 

_‘Five Secret Service agents have died since we’ve been in office. This is ridiculous.’_

After the service had finished and Abigail had paid her respects to the Martinez family, she and her father waited patiently in the large armoured Cadillac, and for a rare moment they were entirely alone.

“What are you doing, my love?” he asked as she began to type out a memo to herself on her phone. 

“We need raise money for their families.” She’d been told by Barney that the White House gift shop was how the Secret Service Uniformed Division made the money to pay for health insurance and disability. 

“A bake sale?” he suggested playfully.

This did garner a small smile from her as she shook her head. “An auction. We could have a few historical pieces from the White House that we hate auctioned off and the money will go to the families.”

He looked a little surprised by the suggestion, but not appalled. “That’s a very clever idea, Abigail. What pieces did you have in mind?”

“I know there’s art in the basement that neither of us can stand and has never even been displayed, so we can select about a dozen of those.” She set her phone in her lap. “There’s also gifts that have been given to the White House that sit in storage—there has to be some value in items of political importance.And that ugly chair that’s at the entrance of the East Wing.” 

“We could donate a few pieces of historical significance to the White House, such as the desk that managed to survive when the White House burnt to the ground,” he offered.

“Aunt Bee would be so angry,” she said conspiratorially. 

He smiled. “I shall have Jack organise something before she returns.” 

*****

Hannibal always dreamt of Abigail and Will.

They are in the garden he and Mischa played in as children. They are young, ageless and immortal. Hannibal can smell the fragrant roses that the gardeners have carefully cultivated in their Parisian estate, sees that they’re playing in the centre of the hedge maze that towers above even his parents’ heads. He spins around on the grass and sees the golden afternoon sunlight catching on their skin, like cobwebs. 

It is warm here and the air is filled with the sound of clouds and birds and sometimes in the right light, Abigail’s hair is golden and Will looks much older than them.

Will laughs and runs through the maze of roses and he and Abigail run after him, holding hands and calling for him eagerly. There is no panic that he can’t see him because he knows Will is nearby, hears his laughter twisting in and out of the maze and the solidness of Abigail’s hand in his…

*****

There was a new video when Hannibal awoke and he brought Will’s dressing gown with him as he went to Abigail’s room to wake her as well. She was still sufficiently sleepy as he coaxed her to at least wash her face and brush her teeth while he found her slippers for her to wear downstairs. Caring for her was proving to be an acceptable distraction to the concerns he had about what he’d been told to expect. 

Once in the Situation Room, Abigail was considerably more alert and Jack had already arrived, bringing with him the dreadful coffee from the canteen. But she drank it down and he offered her his cup as well.

Will looked fairly well—there were dark circles under his eyes from dehydration and he looked anxious, but those were to be expected. Hannibal was simply relieved not to find any new damage on his face. As the video played, Hannibal ignoring the list of people he _wouldn’t_ be releasing, watched the man’s face, waiting for any subtle clue that he might try to convey on the camera for Hannibal’s sake, but it wasn’t until Will began to beg him, something that was so laughably unthinkable, that Will revealed how cunning he was. 

Hannibal listened to the phrasing, trying to discern anything that stood out, searching through the catalogue of speeches and conversations in a race to discover what it was that was trying to be communicated. Yes, it sounded desperate and rambling, but Hannibal knew it would be anything but. He ordered it to be replayed once, twice, five, six times as he watched the captive Will blink—

“Start again ten seconds back.” 

“What do you see?” Jack asked.

“His blinking is a pattern—not morse code, but simply numbers that he’s repeating over and over, ‘one-seven-five’.” Hannibal felt a sudden cool rush of triumph that he’d been so quick to solve the message in under ten minutes. “Will gave me a book for my birthday from his own library. He has an eidetic memory—no doubt there is something within it he feels would be of assistance. I shall retrieve the book right now.”

As he was escorted back up to the Residence, Hannibal recalled the conversation he’d had with Agent Perlman; if Will had revealed a location to him, Hannibal would keep it to himself and make up something to tell them instead. Within his bedroom, he found the book on the nightstand usually reserved for Will and opened it to the page in question. Will’s message had waited into the section called _‘Sand and Foam: a book of aphorism’_ and Hannibal scanned to the second proverb.

_My loneliness was born when men praised my talkative faults and blamed my silent virtues._

Written in pencil in the margin beside the print were five words, ones that made Hannibal’s blood sing. The writing was shaky and he saw a small raised discolouration, a drop of sweat that had hit the page. Ah, it had been made when he’d been at the height of his fever. He inhaled the pages and was rewarded with the faint hints of Will’s illness. Oh, how had he missed this treasure? Had he, in his hubris, believed that he would have Will eternally and thusly the book need not be read immediately?

He closed the book and returned it to its place on his night stand, fingers lingering fondly on the spine. If there was anything that he’d ever willingly have carved in him, it was this. 

When he returned to the Situation Room, Agent Perlman was present and looking expectant as he ate part of a bagel, quickly swallowing his bite as Hannibal returned to his seat. All eyes were on him. 

“What did it say?” Abigail asked, breathless and reverent.

“He had annotated a passage on that page. ‘Kill them all, save yourself’.”

Abigail gave a visible shudder as her eyes widened and her mouth opened in shock. Everyone was likewise startled and alarmed at the words, because they were the kind of people who didn’t realise that one didn’t have to be forgiving to live in this world. 

“Will…” Abigail was coming out of her bewilderment. “Does he think he’s…”

Hannibal placed his hand over hers and then looked up to the advisors who were waiting for an explanation as well. “Will believes that they are dangerous, that they will not negotiate or surrender, despite what they imply. He feels they still pose a threat to Abigail and I. He is offering to sacrifice himself for my sake.”

“Why did he write that?” One of the advisors asked, now clearly nervous that Will had been around the President.

Hannibal had no intention of sharing. “It is not important. Perhaps in his fevered state, he believed that was the correct response to what he’d read.”

His heart beat a bit faster at the thought Will had known it was there when he’d gifted it to Hannibal, that he’d allowed that vulnerability to remain. Had he wanted Hannibal to see it? Had he wanted Hannibal to reject him for it?

“Well, I wish he could have told us where he was,” Perlman said with a frown.

Hannibal wasn’t worried. “Will knows we would find him soon. This was the most valuable thing to impart to us. It was not a goodbye.”

*****//*****

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +I tried to get Will’s hostage speech to match Miriam Lass’ the best I could considering they had such different contexts. 
> 
> +Peter Rabbit is a character by Beatrix Potter
> 
> +Abu Ghraib was secret holding site for the Iraqi-American war. There was a massive scandal concerning the abuse and deaths of prisoners has been the source of much criticism from other countries about US policies concerning torture/“intelligence gathering”. I suggest reading up about it—there are many great links online. 
> 
> +Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis does require two years of careful medication and monitoring
> 
> +Pfc= Private, First Class  
> Pvt= Private  
> Sgt=Sergant  
> All three are rankings in the US Army
> 
> +Thank you once again for all the time you spend reading this and for writing the comments. This fic just broke 200k+ words posted!!!


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between Dec 11-12, 2013

Abigail could hardly drag herself out of bed, but she doctored herself with some Tylenol in the bathroom to fight the headache and sore eyes, washing her face to make herself presentable. And then to buy herself time so she wouldn’t have to face her father quite yet, she put on something simple from the closet: linen trousers and a sweater over a camisole. As she slipped on her loafers, she decided she didn’t have any desire to put on makeup and aside from some quick mascara, she’d skip that step for the day; after all, it wasn’t like she was going to be leaving the house and get photographed anytime soon. 

It appeared many months ago she’d accidentally set a notification on her phone to go off at midnight this very day and while the date was correct, it should have chimed at around five in the morning to wake her up. When she’d checked her phone frantically at midnight, having been woken from her sleep, she’d felt her heart race to see Will’s name and had then cried for about an hour when she saw what it truly was:

_Will’s Birthday!!!_

She was fully dressed and ready when her father knocked on her door to walk with her to the morning briefing and as they made their way to the Situation Room, she said softly, “Will’s birthday is today. 

He didn’t look at her. “Yes.”

“I wish this day was over already.” She was trying not to start crying again, knowing she’d be denied the briefing if she did. 

But her father didn’t seem interested in dwelling on that information about Will and simply said, “Abel shall be here this afternoon. Please see to it that his room is ready.” 

“I will,” she assured him, thinking back to the conversation she’d had with Abel on her birthday. “I promised to have the whole house decorated upon his arrival.” Ugh, the last thing she wanted to see today was anything that suggested celebration. “Do you think he’ll settle for crepe streamers?”

“Surely you can imagine something more festive than that.” Her father glanced back at her and she saw the disapproval in his eyes. 

“I’m afraid I lack the desire to celebrate, as much as I’d like to see Uncle Abel,” she admitted. 

“Shall I have the festivities office handle this?”

“No, I can. I know him better than they do.”

The morning briefing lasted an hour and lacked anything concrete, only raising more questions. Abigail wished they just had an area code she could beg her father to carpet bomb until they got what they wanted. Once returned to the Residence, she put herself on autopilot as she helped her father prepare breakfast, mostly ignoring the conversation Georgia and Miss Mapp were having when they arrived. There was a numbness within her that head started from the core and was now working its way out to her fingers and toes, a wall of white noise that disconnected her from everything around her and like a mask, she was able to put on a smile again.

“As the First Lady, it is your utmost duty to make sure any and all guests feel welcome,” her father reminded her as she ate the egg covered in hollandaise sauce.

“Abel will be happy with everything I’ve planned for him,” she promised.  

After breakfast and as she left her father and Miss Mapp to wash and dry the dishes, she and Georgia went up to the bedroom on the third floor that she’d picked out to be Uncle Abel’s. The furniture had been moved into place and there were two house keepers washing the windows when she entered. She bid them to continue working and that the room looked lovely, finding herself indifferent to the room entirely. Aesthetically everything looked nice, but she kept thinking about how today should have been spent with Will.

As they left the room, Georgia began to recite over the necessary plans and schedules that the East Wing was working on and after Abigail missed a few important verbal cues that should have had her responding, she felt it was time to stop pretending she cared.

“I’m sorry—I don’t want to be bothered by any of that. Not today,” she told her assistant.

Ever compassionate, Georgia asked, “Do you need to take a break by yourself for a few minutes?”

“Once I’ve talked to the decorating staff. I’m about ready to snap,” she admitted, suddenly fearful of the emotions churning within her. 

She made her way to the basement where the floral department and the decorating crew were waiting for her; Abigail was grateful that there were people with more experience and more enthusiasm for this kind of work because even on her best days, she found it boring. 

“Today Abel Gideon is to arrive. I’m sure he would like a grand homecoming, but as the White House is officially in a state of mourning, we’ll keep the decorations tasteful,” she instructed the dozen people who’d grouped around one of the floral work tables. “I’d like to see crepe streamers, a welcome banner…and…” she trailed off, unable to finish. 

She should be having this whole building decorated for Will’s birthday, extravagant so that he’d be embarrassed that she’d want to make such a big deal about him, but he’d know that she’d done it because she loved him—

The head of decorating interrupted her thoughts. “Does Mr Gideon have a favourite flower or colour that you know of? We could have the arrangements changed out for him.”

“I really don’t know,” she admitted. 

“We’ll make it look nice, don’t you worry,” he assured. 

“Thank you. Very much.” She meant it. “And before he arrives, I just want to say: Abel Gideon is not dangerous. I know that everyone is expecting to have to walk on eggshells around him, but I promise you, he’s a very kind and cheerful man, not some sociopathic maniac. We’re not bringing a live tiger into the White House. Abel is family to me and…” She was happy to be Abel’s champion, but she was aware that she had to sound sympathetic to the three people he’d killed, lest she be viewed negatively. “He’s getting a second chance, so let’s give him a White House welcome so that he knows he’s welcome to start over with his life.”

Everyone nodded, but she could see in their expressions that it was only to appease her.

*****

Bedelia and her small entourage had arrived back in Washington quietly, careful not to draw attention to herself for security reasons. It was a relief to be back, not just because she’d hated everything about Oklahoma, but because the White House was where she felt her strongest. Needing to stretch her legs and reacquaint herself with the historic building, she’d dismissed her staffers back to her office and had gone for a walk through the West Wing. 

To her surprise, she found Abigail in the Lobby, watching as White House decorators carried various ribbons and flowers in complimenting colours to the holiday decorations that were already out. Standing beside her niece, she tried to understand what was happening.

“What is this?” she asked as she saw the pitiful array of streamers being twisted around one of the columns by a few of the White House decorators. 

“It’s for Uncle Abel. I’m having the White House decorated.”

Bedelia fought back a grimace at the thought of Abel Gideon being in this building; she’d forgotten about it completely, more concerned with the actions Putin was taking against the Ukraine and whether Hannibal was at risk due to these vigilantes. 

“Not very festive,” she critiqued.

“Will’s missing. It don’t think it would be appropriate to be cheerful beyond what’s necessary,” Abigail replied.

Bedelia felt a vein of hatred cut through her, the way gold ran through granite. “I’d like to speak to you in my office.”

“Of course, Aunt Bee.”

Together they walked back to her office and once alone within the calming blue confines, Bedelia offered one of the chairs to the young woman, who sat down. Bedelia sat across from her, not in the mood to offer her any coffee or chocolate. 

“What can I help you with, Aunt Bee?” her niece asked and Bedelia could sense that the teenager was aware she was about to be confronted with something. 

“If you’re going to welcome Abel Gideon here, you will do it properly,” Bedelia told her, folding her hands together in her lap.

Her niece’s expression didn’t change, still soft and pretty as always, but there was an edge to her voice now. “I’m not going to throw some grand welcoming party while Will is missing. He is being mistreated, and putting up streamers around the White House would not be appropriate.”

“When Patrick died, Aunt Jackie did not mope around the White House and take out her sadness on the beauty of this building. She carried on so that everyone saw how strong her family was in the face of tragedy—” Bedelia started to explain to the young woman, but was quickly interrupted. 

“When Patrick died, Aunt Jackie should have been tearing her hair out rather than worry about these stupid _ants_ that crawl around us!” Abigail’s voice had begun to rise in anger, just a shade away from yelling. “What’s mine is gone and I’m not going to sit around and look pretty for other people’s sakes—“ The door to the office opened so that Bedelia’s secretary could peek in curiously and her niece shouted, “Get out!”

Bedelia maintained her composure as Abigail stood up from her chair. “I am not Aunt Jackie and I _will_ be treating Will’s loss with the respect it deserves.” 

Her niece turned around to leave and Bedelia grabbed Abigail by her hair, pulling back hard; Abigail let out a surprised yelp as she faltered backwards, arms windmilling for a moment before reaching up grab at Bedelia’s wrist. Bedelia took the opportunity to lean in closely, her lips almost touching her niece’s ear. 

“Listen closely, Abigail. There is a natural order to things here in the White House, a set of unstated rules that we must follow for the sake of who we are. I have been very patient with you. You will do as I say, or else.”

“Let me go before I break your fucking wrist,” Abigail said, her voice trembling with anger.

Bedelia released her niece—not out of fear, but because the point had certainly been made. She watched cooly as Abigail sought to straighten herself out and then like a snake, struck almost faster than Bedelia could react.

Almost. 

Bedelia dodged the attempt to hit her in the face and used her momentum to throw the younger woman to the ground. She pinned Abigail down, pressing her to the carpet; grabbing Abigail by the hair and rubbing her face into the rough pile so that it would leave rug burn, she smiled her niece tried to throw her off her back. Her niece was strong, but Bedelia had the advantage in this case, though Abigail finally had the brains to reach around and dig her fingernails into Bedelia’s leg. She hissed out in pain, striking the girl hard to make her let go. 

Abigail managed to get out from under her and attempted to lunge at her yet again, but Bedelia overpowered her immediately, grabbing her around the throat. Straddled over her niece, she watched as her face turn red, tightening her hold as Abigail attempted to pull at her fingers. When that wasn’t going to work, her niece began to desperately grab up at Bedelia’s face, trying to gouge out her eyes with carefully manicured fingernails, and Bedelia released her with one hand, bringing it hard across Abigail’s face, startling the girl enough to make her let her go. 

Oh yes, Hannibal had definitely raised a fighter; Bedelia had no intentions of killing her, but she wasn’t going to allow anyone to think they were clever enough to best her. It was important that Abigail be taught lessons like this. In fact, Abigail should be grateful that she had an aunt like her.

Abigail had a large chunk of Bedelia’s hair gripped tightly in her fist, a thick lock of gold that corresponded with the burning section of scalp behind her ear where it had been torn out. Bedelia thumped her niece’s head against the carpet, eliciting an odd gagging noise. Too late, Bedelia realised that they were starting to make too much noise again, which certainly was bound to attract attention and it did.

Behind them, the door to her office, and the sound of one of her staffers accompanied by a Secret Service agent entered without knocking.

“What the—“

Immediately, Bedelia was off Abigail and both scrambled to their feet, standing beside one another as additional aides and agents hurried in to see what was happening.

“Just a little misunderstanding,” Bedelia said with a placid smile.

Her niece nodded, her face a perfect mask of innocence. “We’re okay, nothing’s wrong.”

Alana entered in next, looking alarmed. “Bedelia—“ She stopped short and looked over at the teenager. “Abigail, what did you _do_?”

“Nothing, Alana.” Abigail turned to look at Bedelia. “Right, Aunt Bee?”

“It was just a joke,” she agreed, smiling pleasantly at her assistant.

But it seemed no one was truly convinced when both parties were bleeding and bruising; Agent Matthews grabbed Abigail, eyes locked on Bedelia. “First Lady, let’s get you back to—“

Alana came to stand between her and the rest of the room. “Bedelia, are you—“

“I’m fine. We simply had a little misunderstanding.” She watched her niece get dragged out of the room.  

“You have bruises—“

“A game, Alana,” Bedelia assured.

But Alana was holding her face, inspecting for any damage. “Abigail is violent and attacked you.”

“Hardly.”

“You’re _bleeding_.”

*****

As Barney dragged her out of her aunt’s office, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“We just needed to burn off a little stress.” Abigail looked up at him when his grip on her arm tightened. “It’s okay.”

“You look like a mess,” he told her.

She really didn’t care. “Hmm…”

“I’m not going to allow you alone with her. If you need to speak to her in private, you can use the phone,” he told her. When she gave no response, he then inquired, “Was this about Will?”

“Everything is about Will.”

He frowned at her. “I wish you weren’t so damn reckless. I’m supposed to keep you safe.”

“You do,” she assured him.

“Who started it?”

“She grabbed me and after she let me go, I tried to throw a punch.”

He shook his head and looked skyward, as though needing god to give him the strength to deal with her. “Abigail, you’re not acting like an adult.”

She tried to jerk her arm out of his hold. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

He brought them to a stop and turned her to face him. “You have enough threats outside for me to deal with. Let’s not try to make my job harder by adding them inside.”

She wanted to argue, but knew he was right. “I could have handled it better,” she admitted. “Sometimes it’s just easier to lash out.”

“I know.” He sighed and let her go. “God, your dad is going to be furious.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Speaking of him, he wants you in his office.” He motioned for her to start walking down the hall to the Oval Office. 

She knocked on the door and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. “Hi, Daddy. How are you?”

He came over to her, his face blank of emotions, but body language tense. “Let me see your neck.”

As he inspected her, she started to lift her arms up to have a hug from him. 

“May I—“

“You will not be receiving special attention from me,” he said shortly, leaving her neck to check her eyes and face for injury. 

“I didn’t do it to make you mad,” she said softly. 

“That is no excuse for bad behaviour.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. You know your Aunt Bedelia likes to get a reaction out of people.”

That was true. “I should have known.”

“And now what will everyone think? They see us fighting amongst ourselves and think we are not capable of being leaders,” he scolded. 

She tried to protest. “She wanted me—”

He cut her off. “I do not appreciate you trying to pass blame to your aunt. You are above her pettiness.”

Suddenly feeling very small and stupid over her shortsightedness, she told him. “I am very sorry. There were better ways for me to handle that.”

“Abel is expected to be escorted from Baltimore to the House in the next two hours. I suggest that you clean yourself up,” he told her, releasing her from his examination.

“I will.”

“You’re excused,” he said as he went back to his desk. 

It stung worse than anything Aunt Bee could ever do to her that her father didn’t want her around and wasn’t hiding that from her, but rather than make it worse, she simply nodded and swallowed back any tears.

*****

“Abigail!” Abel Gideon declared happily as he walked into the basement side entrance that was often used by the First Family when press coverage was to be kept at a minimum.

“Uncle Abel!” 

They embraced one another tightly and he laughed; she wanted desperately to cry into his collar and held onto him a bit longer than she should have, but he didn’t seem bothered. 

“You’re happy to see me.” He sounded pleased.

“How could I not be?” She pulled away and smiled at him. “Come on—let me show you our house.”

He was dressed in one of the suits she’d had ordered for him until he was able to buy clothing of his own and he was carrying a small overnight bag she’d sent along with the agents picking him up, so that he wouldn’t have to use a plastic grocery bag to carry his belongings out of BSHCI. 

Together they walked up into the West Wing and he looked at the streamers decorating the columns. “You decorated for me.”

“Of course—I promised I would. Not too much, though—the White House is in mourning.”

He glanced at her as people walking in the hallway stood aside for them. “Why is that?”

“Um, Will Graham has been kidnapped and the four Secret Service agents and four police officers protecting him were killed,” she said quietly.

“Oh.” He was contemplative for a moment. “I thought I’d dreamed that.”

“No, it happened. I wish it was just a dream.”

“I see.” He gave a small shrug. “We should definitely talk about that. Later, though. They sedated me for the trip over here.”

She frowned. “I don’t think they were allowed to.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. I’m here now.” He sounded as though he didn’t quite believe that he was truly away from the hospital. 

“You are here,” she agreed, grabbing his hand and squeezing it reassuringly. 

After she gave him a brief tour of the Residence, they walked together into what was known as the music room; over the past week, Abigail’s office had overseen the preparation of the room for Abel. The furniture had been gathered from other rooms and from the subbasement storage, just enough to give him the essentials. Abigail recognised how impractically shaped the space was, but it as so unique that she could only hope that Abel would appreciate it. 

“And this is your bedroom.” She opened the door to reveal the room that held a small half level along the windows, two small staircases that ran on either side, a bed that had been tucked between them.  

Abel stopped in the doorway, staring. “Oh my goodness.” 

“It’s the former music room. When Jack Ford lived here, it was his bedroom. And now it’s yours,” she told him, watching his face for his reaction. 

On the small level that overlooked the room, she’d placed a narrow desk for him to work or read at. He hurried up the staircase closest to them and looked out the large windows. 

“I can see the whole city.”

“I know. And my office, down there!” She pointed to the window beside her desk. 

“This wonderful. All I ever wanted was a room with a window.”

The northmost door had been hidden behind a chifforobe; that had been done partially to maximise space and mostly because the Secret Service hadn’t wanted to have a second door to stand watch over.

“Now, if this isn’t enough space for you, please let me know and I can have you moved into the larger room next door. I just thought this would be too unique to pass up,” she said.

“This is fine for now. And then I’ll move into the larger room and make this my office.” 

“That’s a good plan.” She gestured to the small door by the steps to their left. “Your bathroom is right through here. I’ve tried to stock it with things listed on your house inventory.”

“Such a good hostess,” he praised. “How could anyone ever doubt you being First Lady?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted with a smile. 

*****

Kade sat patiently in Presidential secretaries’ office, responding to a text Bedelia had sent her. Agent Zeller sat beside her, his anxiety palpable. She was here at the White House to formerly announce the termination of Brian Zeller from the Secret Service and of all days to be here, it was the one that Abel fucking Gideon was moving in. She’d failed at finding anything to convince her superiors that this was going to be a disaster and immense threat to the well being of the President, First Family, and White House security, as the President had been _very_ thorough in his requests for the safe guards to be put in place upon Gideon’s arrival. 

But she wasn’t going to allow that to distract her from what she was here for today: protecting the integrity of the Secret Service. This organisation would never afford to lower its standards or tolerate any form of cavalier attitude about the work it did—that would get someone hurt or killed and Brian Zeller’s fuck-up had been proof enough. Kade was simply thankful that Graham hadn’t died because that would have been an entirely new can of worms. 

There were people requesting the files regarding the investigation under the Freedom of Information Act, which was a bunch of shit. She, along with her office, were keeping everything so far buried under bureaucratic tape, she’d be surprised if Lecter himself could gain access to it. 

Kade knew that the agent loved his job, was dedicated to it, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. 

“Just relax and this will all be over soon,” she told Zeller, wanting to calm him. She didn’t need someone having an emotional breakdown during a job termination. “And for god’s sake, don’t cry in front of the President.” 

He sat silently, but she did see him nod out of the corner of her eye. 

The door to the Oval Office opened and the President’s assistant addressed them. 

“The President will see you now,” the young woman said, allowing them to enter. 

Kade stood from her seat, straightened her skirt, and marched in. The President was sitting at his desk, hands folded neatly on the wooden top. She and Zeller took their seat in the chairs set before the large expanse of desk and when Lecter prompted, she began to speak. Over the years, she’d never had to present a termination to the head of the country, only her superiors, but this was a very special case and considering it concerned the President in the first place, she and her superiors thought it only appropriate to officially announce it to him first. 

She kept her presentation and conclusion blunt and under three minutes, very aware that no one enjoyed rambling; after all the acts had been presented, she said, “The conclusion I have reached is that the agent in question, Agent Brian Zeller, should hereby have his employment with the United States Secret Service terminated and be prosecuted for firing a weapon at a civilian, resulting in grievous bodily injury.”

The President nodded. “Very well.” He opened a desk drawer and removed a file. “This is Agent Zeller’s official pardon. I expect you to be fully reinstated tomorrow, Agent Zeller.”

Kade couldn’t believe what she was hearing, not reaching for the file. “But it’s already been decided by myself and my own bosses that Agent Zeller can’t work for us anymore.”

“I appreciate your investigation and the thorough job you have done, Agent Purnell. However Agent Zeller is an important asset to the White House at the moment.” He looked to the other agent. “Agent Zeller, you will remain to assist the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.” He sounded as though he didn’t believe the situation either. 

“Agent Perlman is expecting you in the Roosevelt Room,” Lecter said in dismissal. 

Zeller stood from his chair immediately. “I won’t let you down, Mr President. Thank you.”

Once he’d left and shut the door behind him, Kade spoke up. “Why are you undermining me?”

“Do you believe this is a decision meant to discredit you, Agent Pernell?” the President asked.

“Every step of this investigation has been filled with resistance from you and everyone in your camp. And now you’re disregarding my decision as to what should happen to Agent Zeller? If it’s not personal, then what is it?”

“Agent Zeller shot Will because he believed he was protecting me. Will has said that does not wish for Agent Zeller to be punished and I do not feel any form of justice would be served should he be fired and prosecuted.” His fingers touched the edge of the file, straightening it. “We have already lost four agents since the start of this month and losing another will not benefit anyone. Agent Zeller shall be on probation and carefully monitored, but his mistake was not character based.” He held up a hand to prevent her from talking. “Agent Zeller will not be allowed a weapon until his probationary period is over, correct?”

“Correct,” she gritted out. 

“I shall allow you to decide how long his probationary period will be. Is two years fair to you?”

Kade knew she could argue until she was blue in the face, but she also knew that it would make no difference to Lecter. “He needs to be strictly assigned to desk work,” she said, finally taking the file off the desk and putting it in among her paperwork. “Mr President, I appreciate that as a Catholic, you have to forgive people, but I _really_ have to emphasise how bad of decision I think this is.”

“Forgiveness has nothing to do with my decision, Agent Purnell.”

She was quiet, wondering if she could get Bedelia to change the President’s mind, but even she could see that the battle had already lost. “Two years. Then he goes up for reevaluation, where he’ll need to reapply to become part of the Uniformed Division.”

And she’d be there to speak against his reinstatement. 

As she stood up from the desk, the President rising as well, she looked up at him and asked, “What if he had missed? And hit you instead?”

“I do not fear my own death, Agent Purnell. I know that I have lived life to the fullest and that in regards to the Presidency, my cousin would be more than capable of running the country in my absence.” His head tilted slightly to the left, as though he was evaluating her. “You have nothing to be upset about. You have done your job to the fullest and I am thankful for that. I simply have reached a different conclusion than you have.”

Overall, she was left unsatisfied, but knew better than to challenge it any further at the moment. “If you ever want to have him fired, please call me first and my office can get the ball rolling.”

His lips moved in an almost smile. “Noted.”

“Have a good evening, Mr President.” She held out her hand to show that she had no hard feelings. 

He shook her hand. “And you as well, Agent Purnell.”

*****

Sometimes Abigail wished that her father would simply hit her when he was mad. She sat beside him absolutely silent, watching him add a long orchid to the vase on his work table, carefully holding back anything she wished to say. Uncle Abel had gone to bed early, which left her alone with her father, who was still upset with her over her fight with Aunt Bee. 

She imagined she was that flower and he was carefully trimming away the parts that didn’t fit into the image he wished to create. Even exercises like this were helpful—small snips to the mind’s stem. Maybe this was the only efficient way to teach her a lesson—after all, wasn’t this what Lady Murasaki did to teach him quietude?

When he seemed satisfied with the arrangement, he carried it to the altar and set it beside the few items of Will’s they’d set there; the candles burning amongst their memories filled the room with soft light and Abigail wished there was some sort of prayer or offering she could make that would get Will back immediately.

After a few minutes of silence, watching the candles burn slowly, her father turned to her. 

“Good night, Abigail. Sleep well.”

Oh, how she wished she could have his forgiveness. “Sleep well. I love you.” 

He nodded once and showed her to the door. 

*****

Once Hannibal was certain Abigail was staying in her room for the night, he left his room still dressed. To his evening senior agent, he said, 

“We are going to Observatory One. Do not inform the Vice President. I wish to surprise her.”

The drive to Observatory was one taken in silence, the roads nearly empty at this time of night and Hannibal watched the passing scenery in evaluation in the event he ever needed to evacuate the White House without Secret Service in tow. The front doors of the Observatory were opened for him by Secret Service, an agent who looked guarded about letting Hannibal inside the house.

“She’s sleeping,” the agent said, searching for any type of emotion on Hannibal’s face. 

Stepping past the young man, Hannibal took to the stairs silently. “I shall wake her then.”

He’d only been at the Vice President’s house once for her first night there, in which he and Abigail brought a dish centred around veal for the three of them to dine on, but guessing the room she claimed as her own wasn’t difficult. Opening the door without a sound, he entered the room and found her asleep in bed. Coming to sit beside her on the mattress, he placed one gloved hand around her throat, waiting patiently for her to awaken. It took a moment for her to rouse and when she did, Hannibal admired that she didn’t panic.

“Hannibal,” she said as she relaxed back against her pillow. 

“If you ever place a hand on my daughter again, I will break your neck. And leave you that way,” he warned. 

“It was just a joke, Hannibal. Abigail knows that.”

His hand tightened around her throat and her eyes went wide as she made a choked noise. 

“Dearest Bedelia, Abigail does not play games with you—she plays games with me.” He raised one eyebrow slightly. “Do you understand?”

She nodded. 

Hannibal released her and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple as he stood up. “Sleep well.”

*****

Abel awoke to the sunrise and The Rascals’ “It’s A Beautiful Morning” playing on the radio alarm clock he’d had one of the ushers rustle up for him; he stretched and smiled, and then smiled even wider when he realised that he was never going to have to wake up to Miggs masturbating in the next cell over ever again. Climbing out of the warm, soft sheets, he made his way to the bathroom where he had _absolute privacy_ ; he hadn’t been able to take a piss for ten years without someone being able to see and it was almost lonely to be behind a closed and locked door. That was the other thing, however—he still was very cautious about being caught off guard, a fear borne after spending years around other patients and orderlies who’d all been overworked and underpaid. 

Turning on the shower, he hummed and selected a cube of the eucalyptus-scented shower aromatics that had been set on the counter, tossing it in, then deciding it couldn’t hurt to have another. Then he double checked the bathroom door yet again, and took off his night clothes, comfortable and classic pyjamas that he’d never worn in his everyday life, but had a certain luxury after wearing prison issued underclothing. 

He glanced down at the ankle monitor fitted to his right leg, wishing it was not something he had to wear, but considering it wasn’t shackles and handcuffs, he supposed he could forget about it. 

He stood in the shower and smiled as the water streamed down his face, basking in the heat and the rising steam filled his nostrils. Oh, the water had never felt this good in BSHCI—consistent temperature and possibly softened against minerals. The wash clothes were thick and plush, a soft yellow that while wasn’t his taste, complimented the green and cream wallpaper in the room. He scratched as his skin, scrubbing the back of his neck until the skin stung and he was certain it was clean. After staying inside for what felt like an eternity, he turned off the water and wrapped himself with a towel and then abandoned the towel when he saw the bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door. He kicked the towel around on the floor to mop up the small puddle of water he’d dripped on the floor and then went over to the vanity.

He couldn’t help the amused and delighted noise he made at the sight of the shaving kit that had been set to the side of the sink; in BSHCI, one had earn the privilege of using the single safety razor kit and dreadful smelling shaving cream. But now as he spread out the brand new shaving kit on the bathroom counter, he could see that expenses had not been spared and began to put his face in order. He missed the days of his charming facial hair, all carefully trimmed and professional.

Then he brushed his teeth and jesus christ almighty, real toothpaste tasted so much better than the weird generic baking soda paste he’d been issued. He’d still need to see a proper dentist later, but he could feel the mint cleaning away years of shitty mass bought flexible-handled toothbrush all inmates had to used—as if anyone in BSHCI had been worth the time and effort to make a shiv. 

Satisfied with his appearance for now, he went back into the bedroom. While the bathrobe was very comfortable, he’d spent almost a decade equating a lack of clothing with vulnerability; he dressed in the clothing that had been set aside for him in the armoire—that Hannibal was such a sharp dresser and Abel was relieved to see that everything he’d been provided was not only well made, but assumably this season. He put on a conservative beige pair of socks, sitting on the edge of the mattress as he slipped on the leather wingtips, enjoying the feel of lacing them, a luxury not permitted to inmates, due to the banning of shoelaces. 

He flopped back onto the bed, spreading his arms and staring at the ceiling’s plaster ornamentation around the lighting fixtures; it still all felt surreal and testing the boundaries of his new freedom, he went to the door and opened it, taking a step into the hallway and—

Nothing. No one stopped him. No one yelled for security. There was no alarm going off.

“Good morning, Mr Gideon. Going downstairs?” a man who was most definitely a Secret Service agent said. 

“Yes, it’s breakfa—“

He paused when the agent began to talk quietly to his earpiece. He smiled with a forced pleasantness—ah, he’d forgotten that these people were very similar to the orderlies in many ways: there to provide a service to the government and not to make friends with the people who lived here. 

“Shall I escort you down then?” the agent asked.

“Please,” Abel said, doubting he really had a choice. 

He held onto the banister as he walked down the staircase that started in front of his room; he’d become accustomed to heavy straight stairs made of concrete and leg chains connected to his waist.

“Narrow steps,” he commented.

“Tell me about,” the agent sympathised. 

Something delicious was cooking down at the end of the hall and he hoped he could eat all of it. Two Secret Service agents trailed after him and on instinct he slowed his walk so that they’d be able to stay at his sides; he was at a loss for what to do with his hands however. 

Waiting in the hallway was Abigail, looking nothing like a child and every bit a woman who lived with a politician—elegant, structured, and head held high. “Good morning, Uncle Abel.”

“Abigail, my dear, you look very smart in that pantsuit. Grey is a lovely colour on you.”

“Thank you, Uncle Abel. You look very nice this morning, too.” She offered her arm to him and he took it.

He’d forgotten how nice it was to have physical contact with others.

“Daddy’s already plating breakfast—I was just coming to get you,” she told him as they walked in the direction of the kitchen.

“I’m not running late, am I?”

“No, we were up early for business.”

As he entered the dining room, she gestured for him to sit across from her at the table and moments later, Hannibal entered with three plates.

“Good morning, Abel. I trust you slept well?” Hannibal asked as Abigail poured him a cup of coffee from the gorgeous turkish carafe on the table amongst the arrangements of camellias. 

“I did, thank you—oh, look at _this_ ,” Abel declared as the plate was set before him. 

Fluffy scrambled eggs with freshly minced herbs, an array of sausages and bacon all perfectly cooked, a stack of buttered and toasted english muffins, a colourful mélange of melon balls—Abel hadn’t seen anything so beautiful or welcome in his life. The past nine years he’d only had an alternating oatmeal-with-sliced-banana-and-sausage-link-with-carton-of-milk/reconsitututed-dried-eggs-with-a-slice-of-white-toast-and-orange-wedges-with-carton-of-milk for breakfast. On holidays, the milk was substituted for chocolate milk cartons.

“I could die happy right now,” he said, quiet honestly. 

Both Lecters smiled at him.

“Well, don’t, because we still have lunch and dinner to feed you,” Abigail said, patting his hand.

“This coffee…” he took a long, savouring drink. “Is the best coffee a man could have after being locked away for nine years. The flavour is like a symphony.” He breathed in the delectable hazelnut. “An aria.”

“Abel, you’re making me blush,” Hannibal said with a very pleased smile.

Satisfied he’d paid enough lip service for the truly delicious meal, he began to eat in earnest. 

*****

“Why did you let me keep my ring?” Will asked as he was walked back to The Box, hood uncomfortably in place.

The Dragon had joined them this morning, and Will was assuming it was to simply to taunt him about the fact that Hannibal hadn’t done anything about releasing the men specified in the video they’d send last, as that was all the Dragon spoke about. 

“What am I do with it?” the Dragon asked, sounding bored that Will hadn’t taken the bait and become agitated.

“Hannibal will want proof you’re serious. Send him my father’s ring—Abigail will recognise it.”

“Are you giving me political expertise?” The Dragon was mocking him.

Will shrugged, pretending the suggestion was just an observation. “I can’t help it.” 

Will—as much of a comfort as the ring gave him—wanted the ring safe, a gesture that would show Hannibal that he wasn’t going to let these people take anything so important from him.

“You want him to take this seriously, don’t you? I—“ He hesitated, feeling a chill run through him as he thought about the realisation he’d had that morning. “I know I wasn’t your first choice. The box I was transported here in and the box you’re keeping me in now are a bit tight, but if you were to put a teenage girl in there…” It hurt to say it. “You were planning on taking Abigail. But you didn’t plan on Freddie Lounds publishing that article. So you took me instead. You think I’m a good bargaining chip—that I’m close enough to both the President and First Lady to get what you want. But you know as well as I that enemy combatant trades can take _years_ to hash out and you need all the leverage you can get. I want to go home. I have had a fever for the past two days and I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m not getting fed or enough water. The sooner this is over for you, the sooner this is over for me—”

Will was suddenly forced down onto his knees and he let out a huff as a knee went between his shoulder blades and he was pressed with his face and chest to the cold concrete. Perhaps if he’d been prepared he wouldn’t have screamed when his finger was suddenly snapped and the ring was pulled roughly off.

“You’ll forgive me that I need you to offer your services pro bono, Graham?” the Dragon asked.

“No problem,” Will wheezed as he tried to close his fingers into fists to protect them.

“That’s very generous of you,” the Dragon continued, folding Will’s fingers open and playing lightly with the injured digit. “Maybe you’ll get something to eat tonight.”

Will nearly bit through his lip to keep from screaming again as the Dragon suddenly gave a tug, dislocating the finger. 

“The experts who talk about you are saying that you’re very good at working things out. Just based on what you observe. Correct?”

“Uh-huh,” he whimpered, trying not to cry.

The Dragon selected another finger and began to pull it back and forth lightly. “Tell me what I want.”

“You wish for the Speaker of the House to become President. You’re working up to telling Hannibal that he and Du Maurier need to step down, so that Boehner will be next in line to get sworn in.”

He let out a yelp as the Dragon gave another violent tug and dislocated his little finger.

“Did you fuck her, too?” the Dragon asked.

“No,” Will spat.

“Just the First Lady?”

“I never touched her!”

Another finger was pulled to dislocation and Will let out a yell.

“Are you sure?”

“I would never touch her!” he shouted.

The knee came off his back and the Dragon ordered, “Get him up and put him back in the box.”

“Address the ring to my address in Wolf Trap and have the return from me! They’re monitoring my mail and that’s the quickest that they’ll get it to the President!” he shouted as he was led away, hoping that the Dragon would listen to him. “It’s the only way he’ll know you’re serious!”

*****

After breakfast, Abigail helped her father clear the table of plates, aware of how Abel clung to them in close proximity. She doubted he knew what to do with himself now that he had access to people. 

“Abel, this afternoon I shall have my hair cut. Perhaps you would like to join me?” her father offered as he stacked the plates neatly in the sink, starting to run the water was washing.

Miss Mapp entered the kitchen at that moment, looking hesitant, but did not retreat. 

“I would. The barber they brought in every other month should have been called a butcher,” Abel replied with some humour. 

“I shall have an usher send for you,” her father said. “Abel, this is my personal assistant, Ardelia Mapp. Miss Mapp, this is Abel Gideon.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Abigail admired how calmly Miss Mapp shook his hand.

“Pleasure is all mine, young lady.”

“Will we have lunch together?” Abigail asked Miss Mapp came over to stand by her father at the sink, still eyeing Abel apprehensively. 

“I’m afraid not. There is an important call I shall be expecting from France.” Her father smiled at Miss Mapp and retrieved a pair of plastic gloves from under the sink, handing them over to her.

Sensing that he was providing her an opportunity to leave, she asked, “Call me if anything changes?”

“Of course, Abigail.” 

At that moment, Georgia entered the kitchen, smile in place as she greeted everyone. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Georgia,” Abigail said pleasantly, wanting to make a good impression on Abel about how she treated her employees. “Uncle Abel, this is my assistant, Georgia Madchen. Georgia, this is Abel Gideon.”

Georgia’s face changed slightly as her eyes went back to Abel and she hesitated only a heartbeat before offering out her hand. “Uh, hi. Nice to meet you. I’m Georgia.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Georgia.”

“Have a good day at work, Abel,” her father told him. 

“You, too,” he agreed, smoothing his tie before nodding to Abigail to lead the way. 

Abigail hadn’t really known what to expect by bringing a three-time killer as when she and her father had been introduced to the East Wing staff no one had treated them unusually. She had a hard time wrapping her mind around why anyone would be so bothered by someone who so obviously wasn’t going to hurt them. Maybe this was how it would feel to have a known child molester or animal abuser brought into her midst; no, but then Abigail was felt with loathing and excitement, because that person would be an immediate target for whatever gruesome idea she could come up with the suit their punishment. Georgia trailed a bit behind them and Abigail knew she was using her phone as an excuse to create some distance between them. 

Abel Gideon was a fairly standard politician if Abigail was completely honest. He had enough charisma to keep him a public office, enough charm that locals might recognise his name, but not enough personality to take him anywhere grand. Lieutenant governor would likely have been the highest position he could have achieved, which would have satisfied him. But to be promoted to a job within the White House would never have been his fate—this was simply one of those windows the universe opened when a door was closed.

There was a mirror in the hall leading to her office and Abel paused in front of it.Side by side, Abigail considered that they actually looked related; she smiled at him in the reflection and he returned the expression as he adjusted his tie. He exhaled and looked as though he was steeling himself before walking in the office doors; undoubtably it was intimidating to return to work after being locked up for nearly ten years, working in a world where he was already far enough behind the times that he would otherwise be disposable—he knew little of contemporary matters both in world politics and in pop culture, which in the White House made him worthless. But in her fondness for him, it was distressing to think he might be judged for being behind the times, that there were people around her that simply didn’t want him here because he had so much catching up to do, let alone because of his past. 

“Are you ready?” She squeezed his hand.

“I am.” He smiled a little too late to be genuine.

She nodded and one of the Marines outside the door opened it for them to enter. The moment she and Abel stepped in, every eye in the room was on them, and conversation had stopped, everyone staring in wide-eyed horror and fascination. 

“Good morning, everyone,” she said. 

“Good morning,” her staffers said in unison.

“Why don’t we all go into the conference room?” she suggested.

It took a while for everyone to follow after she, Abel, and Mrs Madchen, but finally everyone assembled; she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable, but she was a Lecter and lying was natural to her. If she had to play a role to get approval, she’d grin and bear it. 

“I hope everyone’s having a good morning,” she said kindly, making eye contact with the uneasy staff. “I’m sure all of you already know who this is, but for those of you who don’t, this is Former Lieutenant Governor Abel Gideon.”

“Good morning,” he said, smiling and nodding his head in acknowledgement to the people staring at him.

“Mr Gideon was one of my father’s primary speech writers when he was first elected; he will be assisting me with my speeches projects the East Wing has been considering. He reports directly to me.” She gestured behind her to the open conference room door that showed her desk. “As I’m sure all of your noticed, Mr Gideon’s desk shall reside beside mine so that he and I can work together closely.” She turned to the man beside her. “Uncle Abel, my staff is yours to use, but they’re all very busy, so if you need something, tell me and I’ll know who to pass the information along to.”

“Right.”

She started to introduce the people in her office. “Mrs Jocelyn Madchen is my Chief of Staff, and her daughter, Georgia, is my primary personal assistant.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you, Mr Gideon,” Mrs Madchen said politely.

Georgia nodded without saying anything, her eyes wary.

“Ms Beth LeBeau is my head secretary for the First Lady’s Office, and Janelle Pascal, Dominic Rogers, and Phee McDonald are assistant secretaries.” 

“Pleasure to meet all of you.” 

She continued around the table and a few people managed some bolder ‘hellos’, but for the most part, everyone seemed so apprehensive. Thankfully, Abel handled the matter with grace and as Abigail sat down to start their morning meeting, everyone scooted their chairs so that Abel could sit next to her. Her schedule was discussed and every time her staffers would start to relax, Abel would speak up and set everyone on edge again. Good. Better to keep them on their toes than let them too comfortable.

Some people wished to rule with love or fairness. Abigail wished to rule with fear.

*****

Franklyn sat beside Tobias in the back of the Governor’s car, trapped in gridlock on one of the interstates; they were off to attend an elementary school assembly, where Tobias was to talk about the statewide reading competition that the Maryland Board of Education had come up with. Elementary school was still an age where kids got excited at the thought of a government figure coming to talk to them and Franklyn smiled to himself as he thought about all the photos that would be taken of Tobias with the school children. 

He had on his back support today, so his posture was remarkably better; he’d been practicing squash down at his gym so that he could invite Tobias to play with him, but all he’d managed to do so far was discover that his back muscles weren’t as strong as he’d thought they were. It also held his stomach in a bit, so today his suit looked especially well fit, which had given him a boost of confidence at the start of the morning.

“I saw your article on Tattle-Politics,” Tobias said out of no where; normally, he wouldn’t allow any conversation as they rode together to appointments, saying that it was his ‘thinking time’.

“Oh? What did you think?” Franklyn felt a trickle of worry start to wind its way through his mind; he’s spent so much time writing those seven hundred words, not wanting to bore anyone and not wanting to sound too much like he was gossiping. 

“Surprisingly well written. I had to double check to see if it really was your article.”

Franklyn couldn’t believe what he was hearing, as Tobias was often so critical of _everything_. “So you liked it?”

“Insightful while remaining tasteful,” Tobias said. “You should be proud of it.”

He was absolutely humbled that Tobias would say something so kind to him. “Thank you.” He started to open his mouth to say more, but his pocket buzzed and he quickly retrieved his phone to see what message had been left. “Oh, Abigail’s office texted us. It says we should expect a formal invitation to a private auction held in the White House to benefit the families of the Secret Service agents and police officers who were shot during Will Graham’s kidnapping.”Franklyn looked up at his friend. “Do you want to go? It’s next Friday on the twentieth.”

“Nothing happening that night, anyway.” Tobias nodded his approval.

Franklyn quickly texted a reply back to the message. “I’ll RSVP right now then and again when we get the formal invitation.”

“I think I’ll wear that green jacket I purchased last year,” Tobias mused aloud.

“I hope there’s a good painting to bid on—I need something for my guest room. My sister complained that the abstract looked ‘messy’.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with your taste in art, Franklyn. It’s your sister with the fault,” Tobias said destainfully.

Franklyn could feel his cheeks heat at all this unexpected praise. “Thank you.”

Again he almost said more, but then remembered how Tobias really did prefer silence; if Tobias wanted a conversation, he’d participate, but he didn’t want to inconvenience him. He smiled at Tobias then turned his attention back to the phone. Selecting Freddie Lounds’ last text to him, he wrote out, 

<< _When can I write another post?_ >>

*****

“Uncle Abel and I will take lunch in the conference room today,” Abigail informed Georgia as she concluded her morning’s work of signing hundreds of Christmas cards from the First Family.  

She stood from her desk, stretching out as she went over to the conference room, Abel following her.

“What would you like to eat?” she asked the man as she gestured for him to sit with her at the large table. 

“Would it be a problem if I ordered spaghetti? I haven’t had that in ages.”

“Nothing is too outrageous to ask for,” she assured him.

He turned to Georgia. “Spaghetti with garlic bread and sparkling water. Thank you.”

She nodded, writing it down on a sticky note. “Abigail?”

“I’ll have a sandwich. Grilled chicken and maybe a salad on the side. The kitchens know my preferences.”

“Got it.” She smiled at both of them and left, closing the door behind her. 

“Isn’t this nice? Just the two of us?” What Abigail wanted to say was that he was a nice distraction from the hideous emptiness she was battling from not being able to do something about Will.

He hummed in agreement, patting her hands with his. And then his smile changed just enough that she knew he wanted to talk about something serious. 

“I heard a rumour in BSHCI that I’d like to clear up.”

With all that was going on, this was about the last thing thing she wanted to talk about—a shitty piece of gossip. “About Will Graham and myself?”

“Yes.”

“I am not involved with him in a sexual or romantic way. I do have a ‘colleagues with benefits’ thing going on with my dad’s Lieutenant Chief of Staff, but Will is…” 

She leaned in and he did the same, obviously sensing that a secret was about to be shared. “Will and my dad are both very much in love with one another. Only Secret Service knows, because as you can guess, this is something 

“And even more so now that Will is someone’s hostage. So absolutely under no circumstances can you say anything about it.”

He tapped the side of his nose with a mischievous smile. “Our little secret.” He was quiet for a moment as though considering what she’d said. “You’re trying to keep your fingers in your father’s business.”

She sat back up. “I don’t put my fingers in the Lieutenant Chief of Staff.”

Abel gave her a disapproving look. “You shouldn’t talk that way.”

She nodded, not actually embarrassed. “I won’t.”

Abel straightened his shirt cuffs, his manner a bit too casual. “Is Alana Bloom still working for your aunt?”

Abigail could see where this was headed. “She’s not interested. She doesn’t like romantic relationships.”

“What a pity. She’s really something special.” He didn’t sound dissuaded in the slightest. 

Abigail tried not to sound catty. “If you like that type.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And what type is she?”

“Nice.”

He gave an amused snort. 

Hoping to change the subject off off the ever boring Alana Bloom, Abigail tapper her fingers along the top of the table. “Normally we’d eat with Daddy in the West Wing, but he’s busy with security measures for Aunt Bee.”

He gave a small sigh, his mind in a different place. “They’re so skittish around me.”

She wasn’t surprised he’d picked up on the discomfort he’d caused, but she’d assumed he would be too uncomfortable to discuss it aloud.

“You did kill three people,” she pointed out. 

He waved his hand dismissively. “But that was different.”

“I know. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

This time, he was the one who placed his hands over hers. “Well, I have very high standards for you that must be met. I will not allow them to treat you as the little photo op who is proof your father is a family man. I know that I could mould you into a legitimate politician, and to repay you for everything you’ve done, I’m going to do just that. Consider me your mentor.”

“And I appreciate it. What good is having a title if you don’t have any power?”

“Good girl,” Abel praised and her stomach tightened at the unconscious pavlov response.

*****

Abel thought his haircut was so much more flattering than what he’d entered the White House with, and couldn’t keep his hands off it as he looked in the mirror, admiring himself. The barber and his assistant were packing up their things in this room dedicated to makeup and hair, and Abel, wanting some privacy, turned to his host and said, 

“Hannibal, if I might have a brief conference with you before I return to work?”

Hannibal gave a nod and gestured to the door. “Certainly, Abel.”

Together they went into the family room and Abel sat down on the couch while Hannibal took an arm chair.

“I wanted to discuss the matters concerning Mr Graham. Abigail has informed me about the nature of her actual relationship with him. I am here to support you and your administration in anyway you see fit. I’ve also become aware of the article that was written about Abigail and Mr Graham, which was rather unfortunate. While I suspect my release from BSHCI was to distract from what was published, I also see the severity of the matter. Abigail is important to me.” Abel hoped that Hannibal understood that he’d always be a team player.“She was the only one who ever tried to reach out to me—when I was married and when I was locked up. I shall always be in her debt. Sometimes I think she was the only reason I was able to keep my sanity.” He smiled earnestly. “She is truly a wonderful young woman.”

“I am a very fortunate father.” Hannibal stood from the armchair and went over to his desk, where he retrieved something. “As you will be with Abigail during the hours I cannot, I would like for you to watch her.” He handed over a notebook to Abel. “You may record your observations here.”

“You intend for me to spy on her?”

“Yes.”

Abel found it was difficult for him to keep smiling as he considered having to betray the one person he knew always had his best interest at heart. But he certainly didn’t want to offend Hannibal, the man who’d ordered his release, provided him with a job, and then opened up his own home to him.

“How does one politely refuse a request in circumstances such as these?” he asked. 

Now it was Hannibal’s turn to give a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “One doesn’t.”

*****

Two staffers didn’t return from lunch and their resignations were on her desk, discretely tucked into manila files by Mrs Madchen. Abigail said nothing about it. By the end of the day, two more had given resignation as well; it was obviously because of Abel, which was so ridiculous—he’d not even talked to anyone else, save for Georgia and once to Lebeau to tell her that she had dropped a pen off her desk. He wasn’t posing a threat to anyone and yes, perhaps his laugh was a little loud, but if she’d been freed from nine years of medicated institution, she’d probably laugh loudly, too. 

“Abigail, could I talk with you a minute?” Mrs Madchen stood by the conference room as the office had emptied of all the staffers for the day.

“I’ll just wait out here, unless you need me?” Abel raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll be fine.”

Inside, Mrs Madchen shut the door and sat down at the table. Abigail sat across from her, already prepared to address the matter at hand.

“So,” Mrs Madchen started.

“The people who resigned,” Abigail agreed.

“This is bad for the dynamics of the office.”

Abigail sighed and tried to maintain her composure. “They’re weak. I don’t want to be surrounded by weak people during a crisis.”

“They’re not weak—they’re scared for their safety.”

Abigail shook her head. “Abel Gideon killed his wife and his in-laws because they were a source of depression and suicidal thoughts. No one in here is fulfilling those roles in his life. He’s also on medication that’s working for him.” Then she added, “Will has been taken and I don’t need people in my office who can’t handle a shake-up when things start getting tough. I’m not going to waste my time thinking about this. In the morning there will be four new staffers eager to take their place. They showed their true colours. Things like this cull the herd.”

Mrs Madchen gave her a disapproving look. “I wish you didn’t see it like that.”

“I’m not angry with them,” Abigail promised quite honestly. “I just don’t want them here if they don’t share the same ideals this office has.”

“Which are?”

“People deserve second chances. Could you imagine if I’d been written off completely because of Garrett Jacob Hobbs?” She sighed again. “I understand that he’s done something that none of my employees have done, that they can’t relate to him, but that’s what my job is. I have to sympathise with people I can’t relate to.” _‘Like the ones who quit’._ “This office is about second chances, not writing off people who want to contribute to the betterment of America. We don’t believe that people should be thrown away, do we?”

Now it was Mrs Madchen’s turn to sigh. “I see what you’re saying. But not everyone here feels that way.”

“They will see in time that Abel bleeds just like them.” Abigail really didn’t want to talk to them and was so thankful that her Chief of Staff’s job was to handle these kinds of matters. “Can you talk to them about this? I wouldn’t put my staff in danger just to prove a point. Abel Gideon is completely safe.”

“I’ll try to convince them. But please don’t be surprised if there are others.”

“I won’t.” Abigail wouldn’t want those kinds of people anyway. “Thank you for this talk. You’re my eyes and ears.”

“I’m only trying to look out for your best interests,” Mrs Madchen swore as they both stood from the table. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow. Have a good evening.”

“You, too.”

Once out of the conference room, Abel stood from the chair by the front door that he’d taken residence in; Abigail smiled at both him and Barney, who was eyeing Abel not with caution, but with care.

“Uncle Abel, would you like for me to walk back with you?” she asked as they began to make their way out of the East Wing.

He frowned slightly. “You’re not coming up?”

She shook her head. “I have to go to the debriefing for the evening. But that should give you enough time to change out of your work clothes and freshen up, if you want, before dinner.”

He deflated slightly. “The meeting will be an hour?”

“Yes. Unless something happens—but we’d let you know if that was the case.”

“Perhaps I should join you.”

“It’s a pretty tight circle of confidentiality. They really don’t even like me there, but they humour my dad because they think Will and I…” she trailed off, feeling the words in her mouth sour. “Anyway, you shouldn’t worry yourself—“

“But I do. I was your father’s right hand man—I know that there are big matters that could require my personal knowledge or insight.”

She wanted to challenge him about what he might possibly be able to contribute to the situation, but she bit her tongue, instead saying, “I’ll be sure to tell the agent in charge that you are offering your expertise to the investigation.” 

“I’m sure we’ll get this settled in no time,” he reassured.

When Abigail reached her father down at the Situation Room, she whispered to him, “Uncle Abel thinks he’s going to be able to solve everything because he’s here now.” She tried not to make a face. 

He nodded sagely. “You must remember, Abel has not had contact with rational-minded human beings for almost a decade. As such, not all of his logic will be entirely sound at first. He will require your patience and your guidance. Remember that you are his good influence.”

“I’ll do a good job with him,” she promised. 

“I know you will. That’s why I made him your responsibility.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “And don’t forget—we’re giving him unlimited contact with human interaction. When you pull it away from him, even for a good reason, he feels as though he’s being denied a well-earned privilege. He sees it as a punishment.”

“Oh,” she’d not considered that. 

“And, I think that he is trying to make you feel safer. He knows how upsetting this is for you and he wants to take your concerns away. But we will dwell on it after the meeting. Right now, your thoughts belong to Will.”

She nodded, ever grateful for his insight. “Right. Thank you.”

*****

In the day’s evening meeting regarding Will and REDDRAGON, the Situation Room was considerably fuller than it had been in days previous. Hannibal had found it necessary to not just include his Chief of Staff, but Donald Sutcliffe as well as various cabinet members whom had security backgrounds and clearances. While Hannibal wished to keep the matter of Will’s status completely to himself, there were checks and balances put in place so that all ‘potentially useful assets’—as Jack had put it—were used, and that meant making sure certain allies didn’t feel left out of the largest story in Washington.

However, it did provide an important opportunity for Hannibal to observe these men and women in a time of crisis. Some showed immediate distaste of Abigail’s presence—half because they thought she was simply too young and irrelevant to the matter of national security, half because they believed she had made a target out of Will from their alleged affair. No one had been notified of Will’s true relationship with the family and Hannibal admired his daughter’s forbearance and steadfastness that she didn’t give them any emotion as she might have the week previous. 

Bedelia sat across the table from them, her eyes vacant; her presence was half in voyeurism, half in the interest of national security. Agent Perlman sat at the head of the watch centre’s table, the place usually reserved for the President, but Hannibal found that he enjoyed being a bit closer to the large flat screen that took up most of the top half of the east facing wall. At the moment, they were watching clips of various newscasts that had spoken to people who had self-proclaimed militias. Over the past forty-eight hours, the media had been eager to get in touch with local militia groups across the nation to inquire if that particular civilian army was responsible for what had happened to Will and have them weigh in with their ostensible ‘expertise’.

“Just a bunch of white trash who watched First Blood too many times,” Sutcliffe commented drily as they sat in silence watching the CNN footage of an Arkansas militia group they’d managed to get in contact with.

Hannibal glanced over at him momentarily then returned his eyes to the television. 

“ _We are being unfairly targeted by the United States government,_ ” the man on screen declared. “ _They’re using this as an excuse to try to take control of us and turn the public against our group._ ”

Hannibal felt it was appropriate to take attention away from the television. “The group we’re looking for would not want itself to be publicly known. There might be people in their local area that are aware of men they might consider ‘preppers’, but the population at large would not know who they are or what their larger objectives are. These men will be highly trained—either former military or having been trained by former military. They are highly disciplined and understand the stakes of the crime they have committed. They fully expect to engage in warfare with me and by proxy, the military or national guard.” He gestured to the screen. “I highly doubt men of their…skill level were able to manage this,” he stated drily.

“They look like they eat too much apple pie,” Bedelia added—she was never one to pass up a chance to comment about someone’s weight and Hannibal nearly scolded her for her manners, but thought better of it; after all, the men looked as though they’d make a good apple pie—perfect crusts were always made with lard.

Various groups with the names that were made of combinations that involved the words ‘Watchmen’, ‘Patriots’, ‘Minutemen’, and ‘Militia’ were now in the spotlight, and every one of them seemed eager to show off their distrust of the government and the amount of camouflaged clothing and military surplus items they owned. 

“If I hear, ‘grid going down’, one more time…” Abigail mumbled and Sutcliffe nodded in agreement.

Hannibal would have to tell her to remind his Lieutenant Chief of Staff that he shouldn’t show any interest in her lest anyone start to suspect anything about them. 

“We’ve got no one that operates under the name ‘Red Dragon’ or variations thereof,” one of the advisors at the front of the room explained to everyone in the room.

“Perhaps he is a fan of William Blake,” Hannibal suggested simply to disturb the surface of the water. 

Disappointingly, this merely drew confused looks from everyone in the room and he could see that the people in the room were trying to sort out musicians and poets.

“The etchings he did about the book of Revelations. ’The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Cloaked in the Sun’,” Abigail explained softly while the analyst rooted through his files. 

“Haven’t found much yet to support a religious angle,” one of the advisors said doubtfully.

“Perhaps he doesn’t not view religion in the way you do,” Hannibal suggested, slightly annoyed that these so-called advisors weren’t as sophisticated as he hoped they might be.

He halfway hoped that they wouldn’t be responsible for Will’s recovery, just so that these dullards wouldn’t be rewarded for their lack of insight. Which meant that perhaps it was time to clean house again with a few dismissals. 

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +In real life, the Music Room doesn’t have a bathroom attached to it.
> 
> +If you want to see what a prison tooth brush looks like, google “Loops Flexbrush”
> 
> +Thank you everyone for your support--it means so much to me <3


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between Dec 13-24, 2013

Will almost threw up after managing to reset his fingers and he would have if he wouldn’t have to lie in that filth. It had been very complicated and unbelievably painful to accomplish: he’d had to lie on his stomach in The Box and with his hands still tied behind him, he’d had to push and lever his injured fingers against the padded surface until they felt ‘right’. At least the Dragon had taken the ring off, otherwise the circulation to Will’s finger would have probably been cut off due to the swelling of the injured joints.

He’d actually had a finger dislocated when he was ten and had fallen hard on a boat deck; his dad had taken him back to the pick-up, had him bite down on his leather belt and then reset the finger which had made Will cry uncontrollably. His dad had held him tenderly, shushing him with the battered familial French he spoke on occasion and had then left, returning ten minutes later with an ice cream bar he’d bought at a lunch truck that had stopped at the docks for the afternoon; his face contained so much guilt for not being able to afford to take Will to a hospital where he’d have been given anesthesia to reset the finger, that Will couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes for two days. He’d been left in the truck to eat his ice cream and rest his hand.

Will had hated himself for making his dad feel so guilty over hurting him, but the memory was the only thing that had taught him the way to get fingers back in place and he felt grateful that at least he knew how to help himself in this situation. Breathing heavy, he rolled slightly more on his side, not wanting to place any kind of stress on his bad shoulder. 

Exhausted, he fell asleep.

*****

“You look beautiful this morning, Abigail,” Hannibal complimented as his daughter joined him in the Centre Hall.

“Thank you.” She gave him a smile and slipped her hand into his.

He hadn’t told her that there was a new video that day, having wished for her to dress for once before making her way to the morning briefing.Once in the Situation Room, she picked up on the body language that there were new developments and began to watch quietly, the way a cat studied the flight of birds close by. The room smelt so heavily of stress that Hannibal knew he’d need to have the cleaning staff come in later to freshen everything, lest he have to spend another moment drowning in the stench of tension and fear. 

The man on the camera spoke, standing beside Will’s kneeling form. _“President Lecter, you are running low on time to release the men we specified were to be pardoned. Life for Will Graham is going to get very unpleasant if you don’t take this seriously.”_ He paused and Hannibal studied the way he held himself—someone who was powerful and had built their muscles solely for violence and intimidation. _“You have twenty-four hours left to comply before will Graham face the consequences.”_

“He looks tired,” Abigail commented sadly when the video came to an end. 

Hannibal agreed. “He is dehydrated. Certainly malnourished unless they have had him on a feeding tube.”

One of the advisors spoke up. “So we have good news and bad news. The good news is, these guys have really good recording equipment. Nothing that’s traceable, but we’re able to pick up background elements far clearer than the average camcorder crap most hostage videos are made with.” Hannibal frowned at the unprofessional choice of words. “We were actually able to isolate a word Graham muttered under his breath and pick up a song that was playing in the background.”

Hannibal hated when people presented things in the form of ‘good news/bad news’, dangling information over another’s head. 

“And?” Hannibal asked primly.

“Well, Graham didn’t actually say anything that can help us. He said ‘wrong’ at 2:43 into the recording, probably critiquing what the leader of the group is saying. The other bad news is that the song repeats, which means it’s probably a CD playing in the background, not a radio broadcast. It’s ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow’, by the Shirelles.”

“I see.”

Another analyst was quick to add, “But that doesn’t mean we can’t use this to our advantage. We have people out at Quantico right now—the best techs in the country—analysing the audio for the other recordings to see if they can find something. They haven’t given us anything useful, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen at some point. I doubt they realise we could pick up on that.” 

A third analyst explained, “This means that either they can slip up or if Will can talk quietly, we can get information. If there is any way to subtly slip Will a message to let him know he can mutter under his breath, we’d be able to hear him. He should repeat what he’s saying, just incase we don’t pick it up clearly the first time.”

“We have an advantage, or at least, Graham does,” one of the the advisors pointed out.“They’re still marching him out in front of the camera and if he can use that opportunity to say something, they might not think to edit it out or block the sound. Especially if he can say something that to them won’t sound suspicious.”

Hannibal turned to Jack, finally letting go of Abigail’s hand as a plan began to formulate in his head. “Schedule an emergency press conference after the morning briefing. I will issue a short statement with a message contained inside it for Will—it will instruct him to attempt further communication with me.”

“How are you going to tell him to talk to us?” Jack asked, looking mostly curious, but still harbouring doubt. 

“Will knows me very well—he will understand when I speak to him.” 

“How do we know that he’ll hear the message—they might be keeping him completely in the dark about everything concerning the outside world. 

Hannibal disagreed. “The leader of their organisation will show it to Will in an attempt to create anxiety and fear. I will stress that I am not going to bend to the REDDRAGON’s demands.” He then added. “Hold it out in the Rose Garden.”

Jack paused in the text he was writing to arrange the request, frowning. “It’s windy out there—the mics might not pick up your words clearly.”

Hannibal smiled. “I am counting on that.”

*****

Jack watched Hannibal standing before the microphones assembled in the Rose Garden, which was a great place to give a speech—in the summer. The wind was starting to pick up and the sky was threatening rain. An usher stood in close proximity with an umbrella and Jack could see various members of the assembled press corp shivering. 

But Hannibal apparently had a reason for all of this and while he wouldn’t directly explain it to anyone, he seemed confident it would work. As a particularly powerful gust of wind came whistling through the garden, he said,

“I will repeat myself—Will Graham is a prisoner of war. Whatever he says to you is obtained under duress from a medical and psychological standpoint. You hide your face from me and you speak. And I hear you.” Hannibal’s face was a neutral mask that betrayed no fear or concerns. “Now is the time to surrender. I do not negotiate with terrorist.”

*****

Brian had missed his job more than he cared to admit to anyone; there’d been a few comments by various media outlets that he’d been reinstated and the mixed reactions to that. But as much as he was concerned about how he’d be received back in the White House, he was mostly just grateful that the President hadn’t taken out any revenge on him.

Brian’s security clearance was reinstated, which nearly made him cry with relief as he placed his badge on the lanyard around his neck when he entered the building. His service weapon had already been reassigned now that he was on a two year probation. That was painful—both knowing he was restricted from the job he loved and that the gun he considered almost an extension of himself had been given to someone else. But he was back to the job he’d wanted since high school and he’d even been passed over to work on finding Will Graham. Brian was willing to work ’til midnight and weekends for the next ten years if that’s what it took to get Graham back—he didn’t think he could live with the thought of losing Graham twice. 

As he walked towards the Roosevelt Room where his new assignment awaited, he ran into Lecter and Jimmy making their way towards the Oval Office.

“Mr—President Lecter, I—“ Brian was nervous and flustered. “I don’t even know—thank you so much. Thank you so much.”

Lecter gave a small nod. “I am sure you are needed inside.” 

Lecter looked past him to the Roosevelt Room and Brian glanced back to see Agent Perlman gesturing for him to come in.

“Thank you, Mr President. You won’t be sorry for giving me this chance,” Brian said, still so humbled that this man wasn’t calling for his head on a platter.

“I’m sure I won’t.”

*****

Hannibal sat and contemplated the song he’d just downloaded to his phone. The woman’s voice crooned about her questioning of whether or not her lover would still love her the next day, a familiar song that Hannibal had heard on occasion during the summers at the compound and had never given it much thought until today. This was what his Will was listening to just a day ago, if he was to assume when the video had been made. 

 _‘It’s our song now,’_ Hannibal thought to himself

He allowed himself a small fantasy of dismembering the leader of the Red Dragon while this song played playfully in the background. He’d have Will sit to the side and watch and Hannibal would occasionally turn to smile at him, something warm and reassuring within him. 

Yes, they would still love one another tomorrow.

*****

“Hello, Mr President.” Dr Wellman, the specialist who was treating Will’s encephilitus had come to see him that evening and Hannibal invited her into the Oval Office. “I’m here because I’m very concerned about Will Graham’s health.

“I assume you’ve watched the videos?” he asked as they sat on the couches. 

“Yes, I have. I…wanted to see if he was okay.” Her brow knotted. “I am assuming he didn’t have his medication with him?”

“No, he left it at home.”

She nodded, obviously having suspected as much. “I assume any other information you have on him is classified at this moment, but I wanted to emphasise once again the severity of Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis. The medical regimen he’s on is very, very strict. He can’t skip a single dosage or he risks prolonging the illness, possibly allowing his body to become resistant to the medicine. As I told you when you first came to my office, Mr Graham was slow in his healing—which was fine at the time, because he was being monitored.” Her expression became grave. “If he’s being well fed, well hydrated, given plenty of rest, and kept away from anyone sick, then he could get away with another few days tops? And that’s if he’s not stressed, because if there’s anyone who lets his stress affect him, it’s Will Graham.

“And if he is not being cared for?” Hannibal already knew the answer, he simply wished to see if her emotions would tinge what she told him.

“We’re looking at a catastrophic return to where he was when he was diagnosed. Possibly to the point where he succumbs to it. Encephalitis is aggressive and it will come back quickly and strong. That’s why we went with the injectables for most of his treatment. And while a return might not be fatal, it _will_ result in permanent damage,” she emphasised. 

Hannibal considered how he had desired to have Will back in that position of full-on brain inflammation, still smelling so richly of his illness and now it seemed his wish was being granted—alas, not on his own terms.

“Is there any way you can contact REDDRAGON and tell them about Mr Graham’s medical condition? That he requires his medication?” she asked. 

“I will see what I can do.” He then added, “When Will is recovered, we will have an emergency prescription on hand to administer to him.”

She nodded again and gave a despondent sigh. “I’ve never had a patient who was kidnapped before. I’ve been very lucky. No murders, no…vengeful spouses attacking them. Everyone either gets better or they don’t. They get to choose to take their treatment with me or not. And there have been patients who don’t follow my advice or stop coming, and I worry about them, but to know that I can’t get treatment to someone…” Hannibal looked at her curiously, never having felt that way himself. “I find myself blaming myself for not having had a better treatment for him or not having started him on something earlier. Which is ridiculous.”

“You are not to blame for anything,” he assured her and she gave him a half smile.

*****

Kade sat on the end of her bed, looking at the exquisite dress she had hanging from her open armoire door. As she sipped on the mug of tea she’d made herself, she contemplated what she’d look like wearing it in public. The dress was made from a dusky blue taffeta, the start of a stormy sky. It was a little less conservative than she’d pick for herself, but it was beautiful and she knew that when she put it on, it would flatter her. 

After work this evening, she’d gone to small shop that she purchased all of her high heels from and selected a buff pair that she knew she’d be able to wear to work. She was wearing them this moment, in fact, to break them in. Her phone rang and she answered it, well aware of who it was—the invitation to a Christmas Eve party was propped on her desk.

The Vice President’s voice was smoother than the dress. “Good evening, Agent Purnell.”

“A dress arrived at my apartment this morning,” she said, pleased. 

“I thought the colours suited you.”

“I wasn’t planning on going out.”

“You must. You’re not allowed to turn the Vice President down.”There was a warmth in the Vice President’s voice that nothing else seemed to capture. “Does it fit?”

Kade had tried it on twice, once out of curiosity, and a second time to admire herself in the mirror. “Perfectly.”

“Excellent. You’ll come as my guest.”

“Early or fashionably late?”

“I appreciate ‘exactly on time’.”

“How’s Tokyo?” She knew that Du Maurier was off in Japan getting her cousin settled in her new job.

“Nice. Cousin Caroline is keeping me entertained.”

“And how is your cousin?”

“Radiant and competent.” The Vice President then added, “Don’t buy any jewellery.”

And with that, the call ended.

*****

Abigail opened her bedroom door, and blinking from the brightness of the hallway, she looked at the agent who’d been standing guard outside of her door, his attention already on her.

“I need a car ready to take me to Will’s,” she said softly, her voice unused and unsure.

It took him a few seconds to nod and respond, prompting her to shut her door and go dress. When she came out of her room again, the agents assigned to her for the night had already assembled to usher her downstairs to the waiting car.

At the house, the agents on duty held the door open for her, watching her with quiet curiosity; she said nothing to them, wandering into the kitchen to go to the cabinet under the sink to the cleaning supplies. She’d awoken with the strange and distressing realisation that with Will gone, no one was cleaning his house and after almost a decade of her father’s strict chore schedule, she felt an acute discomfort that things were collecting dust and smudges, and were being neglected. 

Abigail spent the first hour bleaching everything in the first floor bathroom, drowning herself in the strong chemical scent until her throat burned. It was the room most used in the house and she was relieved to see instant progress as she cleaned.Then she went to the kitchen and removed everything from the upper cabinets, scrubbing and washing all the dishes, bowls, spare pans, and assorted kitchenware that Will had acquired over the years 

“He’s going to like this better, I think,” she said self-consciously to the agent who’d remained in the room with her. “It’s more logical. Better.”

The agent nodded in agreement, but she saw no understanding in his face, no light in his eyes, and she had to turn away so he wouldn’t see her cry. While she was certain he could tell that she was wiping her cheeks dry, she focused her attention instead to the task of taking everything out of the cupboards again.

 _‘I can do so much better,’_ she thought to herself. _‘I can really make sure it’s clean and neat. Will deserves my best possible effort and this isn’t it.’_

And so began the task of scrubbing and drying of everything once more, double checking that she’d truly cleaned everything properly. Sunrise came with the changing of the agents and as Abigail allowed herself to be loaded into the back of an unmarked SUV, she felt as though she’d accomplished nothing at all. Her manicure was chipped in various areas and she knew that the moment her father saw it, he would see to it that someone attended to her fingers. Pulling her hands into fists to hide the imperfections, she imagined how happy Will would be when he saw how clean his home was upon his return.

*****

The Dragon had brought out a laptop and on full screen was Hannibal standing in the Rose Garden, the video paused. 

“A message from the President himself. I’ll let him tell you the bad news,” the Dragon said setting the laptop on a table that was about the right height for Will to watch while on his knees. 

Will watched the broadcast, waiting for anything Hannibal would say that was for him personally. Washington DC looked miserable—cold, cloudy, windy. Hannibal had chosen a shitty day for an outdoor conference—no, Hannibal wouldn’t pick such an impractical locationto talk. The microphones were having a hard time picking up his voice and Hannibal even made a point to repeat himself—

Will frowned. Hannibal never repeated himself. Ever. And he’d even emphasised the word ‘repeat’, which didn’t make sense. It had to be a message for him. 

_You hide your face from me and speak._

Yes, the members of this group would think that was for them with their masks. 

_And I hear you._

Were the people analysing these hostage tapes able to pick up on audio? Even if Will wasn’t facing them? 

What did he need to repeat? His next message would need to be brief, in code, and something only Hannibal would understand. 

“He’s not coming for you, Mr Graham. He doesn’t think I’m serious,” The Dragon said, shutting the laptop.

Will said nothing, didn’t try to look him in the eyes. He was certain that his expression looked stunned, possibly even distraught, which would work to his advantage. Let these people think that he was too helpless to do anything. As he was shut back in The Box, he began to make plans for his next message, certain that if the deadline for the Dragon’s demands weren’t met, it would garner another video to be sent to Hannibal. 

*****

The final agent from Will’s detail to be put to rest was Agent Douglas, who had not had family, only a girlfriend and their cat. Douglas had been cremated as per his wishes and so his small service was to be held at a small town mausoleum where his ashes would be placed in a small crypt and then sealed. Douglas’ girlfriend, Gloria, had been very stoic and composed the entire time, and Hannibal found himself very impressed with her as a result. She held the flag she’d been presented to her chest and before the crypt was to be sealed, she turned to him and asked,

“Would you say a few words?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t know him personally,” Hannibal admitted. 

She looked tired and gave a shrug. “That’s okay—I think he would have just liked knowing that the President had spoken at his…well, I guess this isn’t a funeral.”

“I would be happy to.” Hannibal straightened his shoulders. “Mayhap a funeral among men is a wedding feast among the angels…” 

*****

Beverly brought in a coffee and set it down in front of Perlman. It was evening and he’d returned to sit at Jimmy’s desk for finalisation of his daily logs. The office was mostly empty at this point, everyone gone home or grabbing dinner in the canteen. 

“Thought you might need help for a long night,” she said when he looked up at her in surprise. 

“You’re welcome to help, too,” he told her and she took the invitation to pull a chair over. 

“What are you looking for?” she asked, nodding her head to the large stack of files he had set atop his briefcase. 

“Anything. We have…” he shook his head. “Absolutely nothing. He’s missing and we have nothing.”

She nodded, lowering her voice. “Lecter’s freaking out. He’s not showing it to us openly, but he’s been shouting at night. Nightmares.”

Perlman frowned at her. “That’s not in any of the nightly reports.”

She shrugged. “He’s got enough going on. He doesn’t need to have that put on record.”

“Hmm.” He nodded. “Considerate of everyone.”

“We protect our own and he kept Zee from being fired. So we protect him, too.”

“Tell me about his relationship with Graham.”

Beverly took a drink from her own coffee, considering how much she wanted to tell him. “He’s…totally whipped. The way he dotes on him, the way he lets him get away with having a shitty attitude about everything. Lecter’s a real stickler for being neat and proper and keeping his emotions controlled and Will is the exact opposite of that. But not really. Will’s just the middle-class version of Hannibal. I think that’s why it works.” 

“And does Graham return the affection?”

“Are you asking because you need to know?”

“I need to know if Will Graham would have any reason to save his own hide over the President’s.”

Fair enough. “Will is in love with the President. I know that their fight or whatever had put stress on their relationship, but I think as long as Will gets his drinking under control, everything will be okay. And Will would never sell out Lecter—he’s just not that kind of person. He’d never let someone else hurt if he could just take the pain himself.”

“He’s being tortured. Do you think it would take a long time to get info out of him? Confession about who he _really_ is to the First Family?”

“If they hurt an animal in front of him, he’d spill his guts immediately. But other than that, it’s difficult to say. I think Will is someone who can withstand physical, but not psychological. If they can find the right buttons to push, then, yeah, he’ll crack. But he’ll hold out for a while if all they’re doing is pushing him around. And besides, they’re only doing that shit for the camera—they want Dr Lecter to feel bad about someone else’s suffering.”

“You don’t think that a sufficient amount of these home movies will cause Lecter to snap?” Perlman asked, finally reaching for the coffee she’d brought him. 

“When Will was kidnapped, the Doctor barely batted an eyelash. Went straight to pure business mode. And I know he’s watched the films and yeah he does this thing with his face that’s almost a grimace and then rubs his thumb over his clenched knuckles, but other than that, he keeps all of it to himself.” She shrugged and thought about how in college she’d learnt it was unhealthy to keep emotions bottled up inside. “I don’t know how he does it.”

“He’s seen a lot of bad things. This isn’t new to him at all.” Perlman shook his head. “It’s a wonder he’s not psychotic.”

“I don’t know—have you seen how neat his handwriting is? No doctor writes that well. I wouldn’t trust a doctor with handwriting like that,” she deadpanned, which got a quick smile from Perlman. 

Perlman sighed.“This is such a weird investigation. Normally, we’d look at the people closest to the victim as potential suspects. But obviously the President doesn’t have Graham locked away in his basement. And it wouldn’t make sense for him to have someone kidnap him—way too risky to get outed for having a relationship with a man. None of Graham’s inner circle can be considered.” 

She grimaced. “We’re left with the dregs of society.” 

He took a long drink from the cup she’d brought and Beverly took the opportunity to look him over; she thought Saul Perlman was a hot piece of ass, but she wasn’t going to say a word about it until Will was recovered. She’d asked around as casually as possible and learned a handful of things about him she found very interesting: he was a cousin of Iztack Perlman, distant cousin of Howie Mandel; he’d graduated top of his academy training and had a double Masters in Counterfeit Detection and Art Business from Sotheby’s Institute in London, one of the first Uniformed Division Agents to come from the Counterfeit Unit; spoke Yiddish, Hebrew, German, and Persian. 

“To getting the President’s man back alive,” she said, tipping her cup against his.

Perlman just nodded wearily.

*****

Ralph Mandy walked through Washington DC as casually as he could, not wanting to draw any attention from security cameras or law enforcement. He had surgical gloves on and slipped the envelope containing Graham’s father’s ring into the mailbox he’d been slowly making his way towards, placing it beneath a larger envelope that would be delivered to an unoccupied house a few blocks over. 

He wished he could stay to grab something to eat or even just to wander around a bit, but he knew that Dolarhyde was expecting him back at an exact time, having timed out this mission, and that even waiting around for a minute or two longer than necessary could throw the whole situation out of whack. 

The letter would arrive to Wolf Trap in the next day or two and hopefully the President would get the message, no pun intended.

*****

There was music playing in the room Will was being held in when he was brought back from the trip to the restroom. He’d not had any water that day or food and his head throbbed from the dehydration. Will recognised the song instantly as ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?’ and he resisted being shoved back in The Box long enough for the song to end, hoping to hear what radio station was playing the song, but after the song ended, it just started right back up again; Will had slumped when he knew it had to be a cd playing and not information he could use. 

“Will you still love me tomorrow?” Will sang softly in the aloneness of The Box.

He slowed the words, imagining running his hands through Hannibal’s silvering tresses, kissing him softly. But will you love me tomorrow? The way Hannibal smiled at something Will said, finding the dry humour amusing. Tonight, you’re mine completely. He imagined Hannibal whispering the words against his skin—Will you still love me tomorrow?—needing to know if they were truly in love or simply infatuated with each other’s potential to destroy the other.

The Box was completely dark and Will closed his eyes.

*****

Matthew sat in the very large front entrance of the Vergers’ massive estate, noting the absolute silence in the building; he couldn’t imagine growing up in a place this big and fancy—he’d grown up in Detroit in a small house that had been falling apart for at least a decade before his birth. But this place looked like it had a ton of rooms and the lawns were absolutely gorgeous. Maybe more high maintenance than he’d ever want for himself, but nice nonetheless.

He’d been excused for the week to let his ankle recover, and he’d originally intended to spend it cleaning his apartment and working on any leads to Mr Graham’s kidnapping, but the night before he’d found a strange voicemail from a man named Dr Cordell Doemling on his phone, stating that his employer former Governor Mason Verger wanted to see him and they’d send a car to pick him up in the morning. Willing to do whatever it took to get Will back, Matthew had prepared himself for the meeting; it wasn’t a secret that Mason Verger was a nutjob with a vendetta against the Lecters and while no one was pointing fingers at Margot, everyone was very suspicious that she and/or her family had something to do with the kidnapping.

A door to the back of the entrance way opened and Matthew looked to see if it was someone coming to get him. Out walked a beautiful woman wearing a nurse’s outfit straight out of the nineteen-fifties—little cap and all—her pretty white shoes making a small tapping noise on the marble tiles with every step. She looked a lot like Margot Verger, if Matthew was being honest. 

“Mr Verger will see you now,” she said, her voice a little raspy from being a smoker; Matthew thought her teeth looked a little too bright from bleaching out the nicotine.

He stood and grabbed his crutches he’d leaned on the staircase behind him, hurrying to his feet. Following her down a hallway and into another wing of the house, he was startled by the abrupt end of old money glamour for the sterile severity of what looked like a medical ward. He was finally brought into a room that had a luxurious bed, a large aquarium on one wall, and an alarming amount of medical equipment. There was a man sitting next to the bed in an orderly’s uniform and Matthew felt a distinct unease at the way he stared. Matthew took one look at Mason Verger on the bed and tried not to grimace, his eyes darting away. 

“Matthew Brown, Will Graham’s former senior agent. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Verger called out, his mouth moving like a knot of exposed muscles. 

“It’s good to meet you, too, Mr Verger,” he said, steeling himself to look back at the man’s face. 

“Please, call me Mason. Can Cecilia get you anything?”

Matthew shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“That will be all, Cecilia,” Verger dismissed. 

The nurse nodded and then left the room. The man sitting beside the bed watched Matthew with a hawklike intensity. 

“While Will Graham is still alive, I’m still his senior agent,” Matthew corrected a bit belatedly. He still hadn’t been offered a seat, which he immediately read as a sign that Verger was trying to throw his power around.

“Quite a coincidence that you weren’t on duty the day his entire detail was killed,” Verger commented.

At this, Matthew frowned and looked back at the wreckage of Verger’s face. “I’ve already been cleared of any wrong doing. I gain nothing by Mr Graham getting hurt.”

“Good.” Verger’s breathing machine forced oxygen in and as a result, his voice sounded a bit louder when he spoke next. “Let me cut to the chase—I would like to pay you for any information you have on the investigation into Mr Graham’s kidnapping.”

Matthew decided to take his time answering; he glanced over to the aquarium and watched as a large hideous eel swam out of the false reef to the other side of the tank. He’d already assumed that Verger was either involved or looking to get involved and so he wasn’t surprised that money was being offered to him.

“Why do you want to find Mr Graham?” he asked, looking back at the ugly man lying on the bed. 

“I want to find him simply to piss Hannibal off. He’d have to call me a ‘hero’ to the entire world and I know that nothing would make him angrier.” He gave an odd noise that Matthew guessed was supposed to be a laugh. “I know that must sound petty, but I think this could be a win-win for everyone. I get to rub it in Hannibal’s face, Mr Graham gets home safe, and the Secret Service gets justice for their lost agents.”

Matthew pictured what it would look like to see Lecter shamed for his own enemy doing a job he couldn’t; after all the heartache that the President had given Mr Graham, it was the least he deserved. 

“What can I give you to make that happen? Just name your price and the money will be wired to your bank account,” Verger prodded. 

“I don’t want money, Mr Verger.” Matthew leaned off his aching ankle. 

“Then what can I give you? Anything you want.”

“I don’t think you could give me what I want,” Matthew said quite honestly.  

“Try me.” He sounded almost enthusiastic for a challenge. 

“I want…”

He pictured himself sitting out on the porch in the evening with Mr Graham, sharing a beer and watching their dogs running around the large field behind their house in Wolf Trap. Pictured himself cooking tv dinners for himself and Mr Graham to eat at the kitchen table as they talked about their day. Pictured himself being taught how to fly fish…

“Are you afraid to voice your desires, Agent Brown?” the man beside Verger’s bed asked and Matthew recognised his voice as the one belonging to the doctor who’d left the voicemail. 

“I want Will Graham. And I think you want Hannibal Lecter out of the way,” Matthew said boldly, suddenly struck with the need to get what he wanted for once. “The President is a bad influence on Mr Graham. He’s been in my way.”

“Do you think Lecter is interested in him?” Verger asked, his voice light and curious.

It was easy to lie. “No. I think the President considers me a rival for Mr Graham’s attention and you know how much the President hates anyone competing against him.” Verger made a low noise and Matthew quickly added, “I don’t want to ruin Mr Graham’s reputation any further. Anything we do needs to be to Lecter alone.”

“So I take it you are interested in working with me.”

Matthew smiled. “An enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

*****

It was the evening of the fifteenth and Abigail had returned to Will’s for the third night in a row. She decided to wander up into Will’s bedroom so she could be alone; the Secret Service agents had taken up residence in the kitchen, drinking coffee and talking quietly, and she just couldn’t bear to be around them any longer. It seemed strange to have noise in the house when she considered it was silence that Will had lived here in. Sitting on the end of his bed, she looked around the dark room and imagined all the nightmares he’d had here. Did he wake up with the unshakable panic she felt when she dreamt of something hideous? How did he relax afterwards if he was alone? 

Curious, she leaned forward to open his dresser, looking at the neatly folded clothing; half of it had been done by her father, she could tell—he had a way of crisping collars that no one could duplicate. Picking out a soft flannel shirt that was dusty blue, she wrapped it around her, putting her arms through the long sleeves. It was warm and light and she imagined that he wore it often around the house, that it was one of his favourite.

She exhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she tried to picture what he did when he was at home alone; was this what he did? Imagine things? Abigail wanted to know if she could feel empathy, if she could see the world through Will’s eyes.

“I am sad,” she said aloud. “Because what I had established in my life is gone. My dogs are gone, my fun job is gone—I won’t spend time with my family, even though that’s all I’ve done for months now.” She was quiet and considered possibilities and probabilities, trying to weigh logic against the first assumptions that came to mind. If she was honest, she wanted to truly understand why he’d spent so much time away from them. “I ate a type of meat that went against…” She was struggling to find a way to voice what she was coming to understand as his anger. “My belief system. The way some people won’t eat pork. My family knew that this went against my belief system and they fed it to me anyway.” She frowned. “It’s bad because…” She really couldn’t understand how it was bad. “I don’t think they way they get it is humane. I don’t think it’s fair to the animal.” She wondered if empathy made him feel conflicted as to who he truly was. “I want them to make up for what they’ve done but they can’t. The damage is done.”

She sighed and rubbed her hands on the soft sleeves. “Oh, Will. Why would you do this to yourself?”

Enough—this silence was crushing and so lonely. Still wearing the shirt, she left bedroom to return back downstairs. Will had a small cd player in the living room along with a collection of his CDs, which she began to sort through. Depeche Mode, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen—she paused on that album and pulled it out. It was a ‘greatest of’ album; she remembered that one of the songs her father would walk out to during the campaign was by Springsteen. Her finger traced down the back of the songs and yes, there it was. ‘Born In The USA’. It was upbeat in tempo and very working class in lyrics, neither of which seemed very ‘Hannibal Lecter’ to her, but it had been well received and drilled home the point that her father wasn’t foreign.

She put it on, careful to push the button that would keep the song on repeat. She wondered how long it would take before the agents would be sick of listening to it. She intended to listen to it the rest of the night to see what it was that had made someone choose to play this whenever her father appeared in the midwest. Leaving the living room for the kitchen, she began to rummage through the cabinets to find the necessary tools to cook. 

Will’s freezer was still well stocked and she selected a few ingredients that she thought might make a simple meal. She knew that he was obviously being starved as he’d started to look very gaunt in his videos and the growing beard was hiding the sinking of cheeks. In the cabinet she considered Will’s pantry, there were unopened packages of dried noodles and she pulled one out that she thought might compliment the frozen vegetables she’d selected. Will had a large stainless steel pot and she salted the water she filled it with, bringing it to a boil. 

Straining out the pasta, she then put the frozen vegetables into the pot with fresh water and cooked them just long enough that they weren’t cold anymore, then added to the strainer of noodles. Next she focused on making a simple sauce to pour over the ingredients she’d cooked so far, this inelegant casserole. They didn’t own teflon coated cookware in their house and so she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to use any kind of oil to the non-stick pan she’d found or not, so after a quick google check, she was able to add the ingredients she wanted and cook the simple sauce the way she wanted. Cheese, butter, minced garlic, flour, milk all mixed together in the pan until she was satisfied with the results. The noodles and vegetables were added to a stoneware casserole dish and then she poured the cheese sauce over the top, carefully mixing everything evenly. Then the meal was set on a metal trivet to cool. 

She smiled, satisfied with what she saw. 

People were rescued all the time at night—statistically, it was best if she kept herself prepared at night for any call that might indicate something had happened. How happy Will would be when she showed up with something she’d cooked just for him. 

“Hi,” someone behind her said.

She spun around, startled to be interrupted from her quiet thoughts and saw Brian standing there in civilian clothes. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, shocked. 

“I’m back. Desk duty.”

“Oh good. I’m glad you didn’t lose your job.”

He gave her a half smile. “Me, too.” 

“But what are you doing _here_?” 

He put his hands into his jeans pockets and nodded back to the living room. “I got sent here to bring you back. Some of the agents were a little concerned. They think you need to be getting sleep, not cleaning.”

“Maybe they should mind their own business,” she said softly, feeling hurt and betrayed that they would dare interfere with her life. 

Brian said nothing, but motioned for her to sit with him at the kitchen table. She wanted to do the dishes, but didn’t want to argue, so she joined him; having no idea what to talk to him about, she decided to request of him something they’d often done on the campaign trail in 2012.

“Tell me something funny.”

He thought for a moment, contemplating, then said. “There was a presidential candidate last year who set off a metal detector once because he was wearing a cock ring.”

“That’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard.”

He made a face. “How do you think his detail felt?”

“Oh my god,” she gasped as it finally dawned on her exactly who he was talking about. “Brian, I’m never going to be able to look at Chilton again without thinking about that.”

He made a face. “How do you think _I_ feel?”

“Ugh.” She began to laugh hysterically, which soon morphed into partially crying. “It wasn’t that funny, but I can’t stop laughing.”

“It’s the stress,” he told her, rubbing her back. “You’re releasing it through laughing.”

She finally managed to get the tears and the laughter under control and then with morbid curiosity asked, “So, did he wear it everywhere?”

“I don’t want to think about it!” Brian threw up his hands in disgust and then admitted, “Probably.”

She shuddered, but stored the information away for the next time she saw Chilton—she would definitely find an opportunity to embarrass him.

Brian tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Some of the agents stationed at our house in Baltimore are complaining about the fact you and your dad filled the wine room with all that furniture and cooking equipment. It would have made a good station.”

“That room has to be very carefully monitored so that the cooling system doesn’t get damaged. You have no idea how much it cost,” she said very quickly; god forbid they try to get into the room as they would certainly find the trap door that led down to the basement.

“Probably more than my yearly salary.”

“Yes,” she agreed, wanting to make the wine room sound like the most unappealing place in the world. “It was a major upgrade and if one of you messed something up, Daddy would be pissed.”

“Probably skin us alive.”

 _‘You have no idea,’_ she thought. 

“So…no chance in asking him to reconsider?

She felt crushed at the thought he’d come here with an ulterior motive. “You wanted me to talk to him about it?”

He held up his hands defensively. “I didn’t come over here just to ask you to have your dad clear out your wine room. I just remembered it and thought I could mention it to you.”

She relaxed once more. “No, we can’t move anything out of there. Besides your agents have been scuffing up the hardwood floors and that’s enough to bar them from ever entering the house again, let alone the wine room.”

His nose wrinkled slightly in annoyance. “You don’t know that they’re scuffing up the floors.”

“It’s like a sixth sense, Brian. I can also feel all the smudges on the stainless steel.” He rolled his eyes and she insisted, “Shut up! I had to keep it all clean! I know what a pain in the ass it is to get everything back to spotless.”

He rolled his eyes again, and patronisingly said, “I’ll make sure they keep your kitchen clean.”

They were quiet again and the worry began to seep into her skin like rain. “Brian, they’re going to find him soon, right? I know that the longer a hostage is held, the more likely they are to be killed. And if that happens to Will…then what was the point of all this?” 

He raised an eyebrow. “That why you’re here cleaning? You…want it spotless for Will?”

“Yes. He could be home any minute and I…” She hesitated, feeling unsure if it was wise to voice her thoughts. “I want to make sure there’s something cooked and waiting for him at all times so that when he gets home, he doesn’t have to worry about caring for himself. That’s our job now. Forever.” She looked back down at the tabletop. “I know he’s hungry. I can feel that, too.” She wanted nothing more than to take Will’s pain away. “And whatever they’re feeding him isn’t healthy, that’s for sure. Or enough.”

“What if they…”

“Don’t say it. Please. They have to find him.” Her heart ached. “And then everything will be back to normal. He’ll come back to his office next to Daddy’s and he’ll stay for dinner and come early for breakfast and he’ll complain about the same little things he always did and he’ll tell us he loves us.”

“Okay, Abigail,” Brian said softly as he began to rub her shoulders again.

*****

Hannibal was at an early morning meeting with Abigail and Bedelia in his office; they sat across from Agent Perlman rather than the fluster and hurry of the Roosevelt Room or the Situation Room, which was currently being used for the monitoring of the Ukraine situation. Winston was at his feet, sighing as though he was exhausted of the matter and Hannibal felt a small fondness for the dog’s loyalty to him. Agent Perlman had an air of excitement to him and Hannibal hoped it was something that he’d be able to use to his advantage for once.

“This morning the post office in Wolf Trap received an interesting piece of mail,” Perlman explained to the three members of the First Family. “We’ve had them holding anything addressed to Will and then this arrived, addressed to _you_ , from _Will_.”

“What?” Abigail said in confusion as Perlman pulled out an evidence bag from his briefcase.

“That is not his handwriting,” Hannibal observed as he took the evidence bag that contained the envelope. 

“No, we did a comparison. This was written by someone left handed,” Agent Perlman agreed. “It’s already been to the facility to be tested for bio-weapons and x-rayed. After it was cleared, it was opened and we retrieved this letter and this.” 

He removed two more evidence bags from his briefcase and passed them over. Hannibal looked at the small circular object in the smaller bag and observed, 

“My father’s ring. I gave it to him. I did not realise he’d had it on him.

“In the letter, REDDRAGON references the ring as Will’s father,” Perlman noted.

Hannibal opened the bag and tipped the ring out onto his palm. “Will lied.”

Hannibal slipped it onto his own right ring finger, trying to perceive any of the last impressions of Will. Sweet boy. How sentimental Will must have been feeling to have actually worn it. And it had been a defiant act, certainly—why else would he wear it without telling Hannibal?

“Maybe next time I’ll send you something wet,” Abigail read aloud from the letter and looked up at him. 

Hannibal’s first thought was that he hoped whatever that wet thing was, it would be transported and stored properly so that it could either be reattached or eaten. Something that would be savoury with a berry sauce, maybe a finger that could be marinated and sauteed. Perhaps an ear. His mouth watered. But no, he did not truly desire that. While it would be interesting to consume a part of him, Will’s body was not a renewable resource and thusly, once something was damaged or removed, he would lose that part for himself forever. Hannibal would rather have the ring than whatever butchering job the REDDRAGON was offering.

And in fact, the letter had been signed with a single symbol:

中

Bedelia had a very serious expression on her face and when her eyes met his, Hannibal saw not fear, but apprehension that the people responsible for what had happened to Will would spoil everything she’d worked to create.

“When he is located, I do not necessarily feel generous enough to want survivors. I feel this country is due for another Waco, don’t you?” Hannibal asked as he returned his attention the agent in the room.

Bedelia, ever his ally, nodded. “I don’t represent terrorists,” she said crisply. 

“Nor do I,” he agreed.

“If Will is dead, I want the place just burned to the ground,” Abigail said, looking over the letter again. 

Bedelia was quick to offer her support. “I second it.”

Perlman nodded. “Any force required to obtain Will Graham shall be used. We’re also looking into whether or not REDDRAGON had anything to do with the disappearance of Miriam Lass and Clarice Starling’s death.”

“Do you think they’re related?” Hannibal asked curiously—he didn’t want the conflicting evidence of what he’d done interfering with Will’s rescue. 

“Your Chief of Staff seems pretty convinced and there are a good portion of Secret Service who would agree with it.”

“And if it’s not?” Abigail asked, caution in her voice.

Perlman gave her a grim smile. “Then Washington is more dangerous than we ever thought.”

*****

Jimmy could tell that even if they recovered Will Graham within the next twenty minutes, there was still no way that he’d get the vacation time he’d specified off. He and his wife had planned to go to Cabo for the winter holidays, where they stayed at a resort that catered to open relationships; yeah, it wasn’t bad any other time of the year, but the Christmas holidays gave the best assortment of guests to pick from and while Jimmy didn’t like to feel selfish, he also didn’t like bailing out on his wife when he already had a very tight schedule and budget to work with. 

Taking his smoking break, he quickly dialed her number, hoping that she wasn’t busy at her own job. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered under his breath until his wife picked up. “Hi, honey. How are you?”

“I’m good. Everything okay?” she asked, and he could hear faintly in the background that she was typing.

Rather than draw it out, he just bit the bullet and told her, “I’m not going to be able to go on vacation with you.”

The sound of her typing continued. “Want me to stay home?”

“No, no…you go without me.” The resort allowed women to come alone and besides, the staff knew who the Prices were. 

“Are you sure?” Now she’d stopped with whatever it was that she was writing.

“Yeah, I’m really sure. We’ll make time once we get Graham back,” he promised.

“Okay.” She made a kissing noise into the phone.

He kissed in return. “‘Kay, love you.”

“Love you, too.”

*****

Bedelia entered her cousin’s office with a quiet knock on the open doorway. He looked up at and feigned interest in seeing her.

“I have the final assessments for Syria to be signed,” she informed him as she walked into the room. 

She sat down on the edge of his desk, studying his face as he glanced over the summary. 

“Putin has been quiet,” she offered, unsure if that was what one said to comfort another; she didn’t feel bad that Will Graham was gone, but she didn’t need emotions to get in the way of her cousin doing his job. “I find that very concerning. 

“He is deciding to infiltrate Ukraine. Crimea appears to be his starting point,” he informed her.

Ah, so he’d read the briefing left on his desk that morning. She’d been concerned that he was more focused on Graham than the world at large andnow she’d been reassured that he was invested in the larger picture, she could relax.

“He’s not happy with us speaking out against his motions towards the south.”

He signed the bottom of the Syria documents as he said, “Then we shall go to war with them.”

Bedelia couldn’t contain her pleasure and smiled broadly; her fingers twisted in her lap and she said gently, “I would like that.”

“I know you would.”

“I would like to see their entire global infrastructure disrupted. Can you imagine a world where Putin was no longer in it?”

Ah, the Kennedy dream from the Cold War. To see Russia brought to its knees. She imagined fighter jets flying over the nation’s capitol, every household hanging an American flag over their front door, every citizen whipped into the frenzy of wanting pure democracy. They were on the cusp of Camelot—she could feel it in her core. 

He interrupted her thoughts, his voice devoid of emotion and clinical. “How does that make you feel?”

She turned back to him. “Triumphant.” Standing from the desk, she gave him a delicate look. “If you need anything, please let me know, Hannibal.”

He nodded, dark eyes following her out of the room. 

*****

Weill had a suspicion that they were going to record another hostage video soon and as he rest in The Box, he began to formulate another plan. Hannibal—thankfully—was sophisticated enough not to make obvious communication with him, which meant that so far, his kidnappers had no idea that he’d been able to reach out to Hannibal in the last video. 

He had to warn Hannibal somehow that these people were dangerous and that there was still potential danger for himself or Abigail, possibly even Du Maurier. He knew if he was caught, he’d probably be executed on the spot, but it was so worth it. Unfortunately he still didn’t have any idea where he was other than beside the ocean or some other salt water body. But he was fairly certain at this point he’d been on a plane and if that was all the information he could provide, then he’d die trying to get it to Hannibal. 

And from the raging fever he’d been experiencing, he knew it was only a matter of time before the delusions he’d experienced a year ago set in once more. If he was lucid enough now, then he was obligated to take action. 

It was time to fake a hallucination.

*****

On the eighteenth, there was another recording.

Hannibal sat with Abigail at the conference table in the Situation Room, quietly observing the information that the terrorist organisation was offering him; again, Will was on his knees in the same sweatshirt and sweatpants that were now becoming filthy from repeated wearing. Hannibal frowned as he noticed how much larger they seemed on the younger man. 

The man who appeared to be in charge of the group stood at the forefront of the video; he was tall and Hannibal believed he could take him on in a fight and live. 

“ _As you can see, Graham isn’t doing to well. Been rambling all morning,_ ” the man said, his jagged teeth showing. 

The camera zoomed in slowly on Will’s face and the men in the room went silent as Will mumbled something, his eyes glazed over. But Will was blinking in a rhythm and Hannibal found himself smiling—that clever boy was giving the Morse code pattern for SOS, a technique that soldiers in distress used when they were filmed. It seemed that no one expected sallow and disheveled Will would try to communicate like a soldier. A single letter at the beginning of each sentence was preventing any of these experienced military men from understanding what was happening. 

And Hannibal’s heart swelled with pride that Will was able to send a message to him—held for two weeks and not the passive hostage that his captors believed him to be.  

“ _President Lecter, the men who are to be released, haven’t been. Graham for them. But because I am waiting on you, I will be raising the price of Graham’s release_.” The man shifted his weight forward slightly, shoulder and chest muscles showing beneath the long sleeved olive drab shirt he wore. “ _You will repeal Lectercare. Lectercare will continue to stop entrepreneurship, slow growth, and halt research and development. Everything about Lectercare is a lie, a filthy lie._ ”

The wording was interesting to Hannibal—paranoia of the destruction of Small Town America, and the way he’d empasised ‘filthy’ made Hannibal think that perhaps this man had a fear of uncleanliness, which could manifest in many ways. 

The video ended and one of the specialists announced, “We were able to isolate what Will was saying.” 

The audio clip played and Will's voice filled the room. _“I really want to get away from him. By Christmas, I will be gone. By Christmas, do you want to be gone? By Christmas, do you want to be gone?! By Christmas, do you want to be gone?!! I would ask you, could I go home and make a trip to see my people? I have the power to send you home by Christmas, but it’s not on Transworld Airlines. It’s blasphemy! It’s blasphemy to talk about going back when you have not been given any approval! Do you want to go home?”_

Hannibal’s brow furrowed in the slightest of increments. The words were familiar and he held up a hand to stop anyone from talking as he tried to recall where he’d heard them. Within his mind palace, his father held open a bible, the words spilling out onto a jungle floor, slipping under the dead and decaying leaves.

“Those are not his words,” Hannibal said as he returned his attention to the men in the room. “They are from the final recording of Jim Jones before he had all the members of his cult killed.”

“Why the heck is he reciting Jim Jones?” Jack asked, looking at Will’s image on the screen.

“Will is not hallucinating. He is trying to tell us something with those words.” Hannibal didn’t have time for the others in the room to figure it out on their own and so he explained. “The men who have him are fanatics—they aren’t going to let him go, despite their promises. Will shall be killed by them at some point and it’s been nearly twenty days. He does not see this stand off ending peacefully.”It felt as thought he was translating a foreign language—he almost pitied the men and women in this room. “He is mentioning a plane. I would like a list of all flight plans listed from December fourth for the surrounding states. I believe he is confirming to us that he was flown out.”

“We’ve already looked everything over. Nothing suspicious,” one of the advisors told him. 

“There is a possibility that there were flights that weren’t recorded.” Hannibal thought that much was obvious, but perhaps because he was a registered Democrat they thought he wouldn’t like the idea of the government spying on the average civilian. 

“That would require either a private airfield or a helicopter, right?” Abigail asked, turning to him.

“Yes.” Looking at the FBI liaisons in the room, he instructed, “Organise an aerial search of any nearby airfields, private or unauthorised.”  

Abigail’s hand came to touch his in an attempt to regain his attention and she asked quietly, “Could he be worried that by Christmas they might kill him?”

“Will does not fear death, Abigail,” he promised her, not wanting her to think that their Will was a coward. 

“That doesn’t mean I want him to die.”

It wasn’t something he wanted, either. “I know.”

*****

Abigail seemed to experience Will’s kidnapping with a pendulum of reactions: some days could pass by with relative ease, her mind purely in a hunting mode, and then the other days had her in a painful stupor, where she had a hard time focusing on anything other than her own melancholy.

Today was a melancholic day.

“I can’t deal with Christmas this year. I can’t look at presents or trees or wreaths or any of it,” she told Georgia quietly, finding all the decorations too much. “Please call the decorating department and tell them I want to meet them in the floral department.”

Georgia seemed distressed by this, but still gave a very supportive, “Okay.”

“Would you like me to come with you?” Uncle Abel asked, his forehead creased in his concern.

“No. But thank you.”

Abigail left her office with Georgia and Barney in tow, fingers itching to pull at her hair. She hated how she felt, but she hated the fact that there was nothing she could do to help Will even more; she wanted to lead the charge in finding him, rallying behind every legal resource they had. She’d been closely following the internet community’s progress with identifying REDDRAGON members, but they seemed to have reached a standstill, which had left her crying in bed this morning. 

In the decorating department, everyone assembled looked at her with curiosity, perhaps expecting another assignment to empasise Christmas cheer. Abigail had come to douse that fire.

“There will be no holiday decorations in the Residence this year.” The employees shifted and exchanged uncomfortable looks. “I will accept a tree that’s been prepared in the event…” She pictured Will not making it back to the house alive. “In the event Will is recovered in time for Christmas. But there will be nothing—no nativities, no wreaths, no red and green, no mistletoe—in the upstairs Residence this year. Keep the tree in the floral department. I don’t want to see it.” The next thing she was about to say would hurt feelings, but she didn’t really care—she just wanted them to understand that this holiday felt like a mockery of everything the holiday perfections were supposed to be. “I’d like everything that has been put up in the Residence to be taken down. I know that you’ve all spent a great deal of time making everything look beautiful, but when I see it…I just see a reminder that Will is suffering and I don’t want that.”

Everyone nodded and agreed, but she could see she’d just ruined many people’s day. The Christmas decorations took months to plan and assemble and it was bad enough that the public no longer got to see them since the tours had stopped, but to remove the festivities early? Abigail was certain that she was the first First Lady to make the request. As she left the room, she wondered if it would lead to a mutiny from the staff. 

*****

Hannibal had been secretly grateful that Abigail had not denied him a Christmas tree for the Oval Office; it was not his favourite holiday in spirit, but it was in appearance, so long as the tacky decorations were kept far away from him. When Jack had come to complain that Abigail was going against traditions, Hannibal had happily reminded him that Abigail decisions about the White House were final, a power he would not strip her of.

The tree in his office was magnificent and the decorations held a certain splendor that he could only associate with this particular holiday. On the branches were small tin spirals of tinsel, strings of fragrant cranberries, and he and Miss Mapp had personally decorated it in ornaments he’d collected for years, all Waterford and Wedgewood, as well as a few Swarovskies that were tasteful enough to be owned. Miss Mapp had been impressed with the decorations and he’d only too happily told her the story behind each purchase. There was no room on in his Christmas for handmade ornaments, things made out of resin or polymers. Yes, Abigail had made him little reindeer from tongue depressors and a snowman from marshmallows years ago, but those hideous little crafts had been packed away in their house’s attic, where they would hopefully be forgotten and eventually thrown away. He appreciated the gesture of children creating gifts, but that didn’t mean he had to display them or desire them.

He knew Jack wasn’t pleased that the tree was going to display ornaments worth more than most American’s monthly electrical bills, but there was a time and place to censor his appreciation of luxury and his office would not suffer simply because he had expensive taste. And with the tours cancelled until further notice, it didn’t matter—no one would see it. 

On a branch facing his desk was a familiar ornament. He cradled the pale pink Wedgewood swan, smiling; it had been the first ornament Abigail had picked out after her adoption. While pink wasn’t exactly a shade he found suiting for Christmas, it had been her choice and he could find the beauty in that decision. At the moment, Miss Mapp was admiring a Swarovski globe with a crystal snowflake inside; he’d seen that one in the paper holiday catologue they sent out every year and he’d thought it charming. Perhaps Miss Mapp would find one bought and wrapped under the Christmas tree for herself. 

As he sat behind his desk he turned to look at the arrangement of photo frames on the table behind him. He sought out the picture of himself and Abigail that had been taken as their First Family’s official portrait and tilted it slightly to the side so that he might look at the photo frame sheltered behind it. That frame held a photo of he, his parents, and Mischa on the beach together in the Hamptons. It had been the fourth of July, and unseasonably stormy that summer; he could remember defiantly turning down the sweater he’d been offered and he had been cold as they walked along the beach as a result. His father had set up his camera on a coastline fence post and with the timer, had the four of them pose for the photo. Mischa was holding up the little half of a sand dollar she’d found and while he was facing the camera, his eyes were looking down at her. 

Forty years. 

*****

Georgia and Beth Lebeau had surprisingly come to the conference room to have lunch with she and Abel; they’d brought salads and soups while she and Abel ate grilled cheese sandwiches—something he’d missed while being locked up. Both women were watching him with guarded interest and tired of their stares, Abigail said,

“Georgia, have your mother enroll me in GWU as a part time student. Whatever it takes—my bank account can cover it.”

Georgia looked surprised and pulled out her phone to text. “It might be hard considering the usual enrollment period for spring is over, but I’m sure she can get it taken care of. Online or physical classes?”

“Online.” Abigail doubted she’d ever be let out of the White House again by Secret Service.

She nodded, texting with her thumb. “Intended major?”

“General. Or undecided.”

Abel opened his mouth as though to say something, then changed his mind and ate a piece of fruit instead.

“Did you wish to say something?” she prodded. 

“I was going to say that George Washington University probably doesn’t have the prestige your father is looking for.”

Abigail didn’t let her voice sound angry or spiteful, wishing for once that her father would just stay out of her way. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re not enrolling him then.”

*****

“President Lecter.” Agent Perlman leaned into Hannibal’s office without knocking and there was a bit of cream cheese smeared on the side of his mouth from an interrupted late breakfast. “They’ve found the upload site for the first YouTube video. And here’s the best part—we had a drone fly over the top and we were able to identify a small airstrip on the property.” He began to smile. “A team is already moving into position and they’re broadcasting it to the situation room.”

Hannibal rose from his desk. “Miss Mapp—“

She stood too, rapidly typing on her BlackBerry. “Already rescheduling the meeting, sir.”

Hannibal raised a brow, not happy with her interrupting him, but now was not the time to correct her—he’d have an opportunity later to remind her that proper etiquette dictated that she never repeat that mistake again, even if she thought she was being helpful. 

The Situation Room was chaotic when they entered, everyone moving around or making phone calls—at minimum, every person could be considered noisy and Hannibal kept his emotions in check as he went to sit at the head of the table. He wanted answers for the disorder and behaviour and was given an explanation almost immediately .

“That sonofabitch shot himself in the head when the alpha team approached,” he was told by one of the FBI liaisons.  

“Damnit!” someone in the room cried.

Hannibal turned to Perlman. “Take me there.”

“Mr Pres—“

Hannibal rarely interrupted, but he did not have the patience to be denied what he wanted. “I will not repeat myself.” He turned to his assistant, who still stood by his chair. “Miss Mapp, cancel my schedule for the day. We’re going to go Virginia.”

She looked surprised. “You want me to come to?”

“Yes.” 

“Yes, Mr President,” she said, quickly pulling out her BlackBerry to update the master schedule.

Hannibal stood from the table and Perlman, too smart to argue and still wearing the cream cheese smear, sighed and gave him what he wanted.

“Well, let’s go.”

Instead of a motorcade, they departed in a few of the Secret Service’s nondescript vehicles, Hannibal and his entourage in a service van that had no windows in the back. He sat on a very uncomfortable bench seat, the lap belt tightly around him as the vehicle was prone to bouncing. Every agent aboard was in tactical gear aboard, Agent Price no longer the lead of the team; one of the agents was lecturing Hannibal about the possible dangers they faced from traps that had been set out for intruders and Hannibal tried not to be insulted that this man was so condescending to his intelligence. Miss Mapp had braced her hands on the bench and planted her heels firmly on the divots in the metal floor; she sat beside him quietly, but he could hear her mind hard at work, wanting to prove herself useful to him.

When they arrived in Bird-In-Hand, Pennsylvanian three hours later, Hannibal was eager to stretch his legs. There were not any surrounding neighbors that would be aware of the investigation nor of his presence, which was to his advantage. He had every intention of scouring the property himself and find the necessary information to locate Will. He offered his hand out to Miss Mapp, who looked relieved to have some assistance on the largely undeveloped land. They made their way slowly out to the airfield, carefully navigating the uneven path; Miss Mapp gripped his hand tightly as she stepped over the large rocks and apologised for not having brought more practical shoes with her, but Hannibal didn’t mind, watching the crime scene technicians working off in the distance. 

*****

“What are you hoping to find?” Margot asked quietly as she trailed behind Lecter and his assistant in the wooden shed beside the runway. 

Her tactical gear was uncomfortable, her bullet proof vest pushing the underwire of her bra into her ribcage; she was carrying an AR-15 in her hands, which made her feel intimidating, something so alien. 

“Clues,” he replied simply.

If this had been anyone else, she would have rolled her eyes at how stupid this whole thing was, but Lecter was a smart and resourceful man—if any civilian was capable of finding something they overlooked, it would be him. The crime scene techs were fairly annoyed with his presence, muttering under their breath that he was contaminating evidence, but Margot thought he was actually being quite careful and had gotten him gloves to work with. 

He’d eventually spotted something along on of the walls in the dirt and knelt down to pick it up. Everyone in the room went quiet. 

“What is it?” Mapp asked, crouching down beside him.

“Perhaps nothing.” 

Everyone watched curiously as the President closed his eyes and inhaled. He was quiet for the count of three seconds then opened his eyes and declared, “Sea water. This is a coastal plant.”

“Maybe this guy liked the beach,” Agent Price suggested.

“Perhaps.”

The President’s assistant spoke up. “I think the fact that this guy has a runway and Mr Graham gave you an indication about a plane are too big a coincidence. And not just a plane, but flight.”

“I agree, Miss Mapp.” He stood, still holding the small blade of grass between his thumb and finger. “So it would appear that Will was taken somewhere on an unrecorded flight.”

“Maybe by the ocean?”

He motioned for one of the techs to come over with an evidence bag. “This should be analyzed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think it might not be local?” Margot asked.

“There is a possibility it might not be.” He glanced over to his assistant, who was looking at the ceiling of the shed. “You think he hid something in the rafters.”

She pointed up to corner. “I think he has a modem line. Look.”

He smiled as one of the techs hurried over to investigate what she’d spotted. “Very good, Miss Mapp.” 

“Shit,” the tech cursed as he stood on a step stool and showed the end of a cable. “The line’s been cut. Probably trying to keep anything from tracing back to him.”

Mapp shrugged. “My dad always warned me about weirdos bugging my apartment, so…”

“You have very good instincts. Never apologise for following them,” the President told her.  

One of the advisors from Langley had set up a fax machine outside and was in the process of printing out data that headquarters was sending them; he entered the shed and handed Lecter a stack of papers. 

“This guy was wannabe military. Tried to get into the SEALs but couldn’t cut it during regular bootcamp, got a discharge.” 

“Militia,” Mapp declared.

The President flipped through the report. “He would seek to fit within a group that could overlook his other shortcomings.”

“I bet he was a prepper,” she speculated.

“There is a high likelihood. He most certainly has a way of maintaining contact with the men who took Will. He might not an official member of their group, merely a sympathiser.” 

“Which is good and bad. Might not have tip them off that we’ve discovered something,” Price chimed in.

“We have to keep this out of the press,” Margot murmured. “If Freddie Lounds gets ahold of this story, Will could be killed.”

“I agree.” Lecter looked to Perlman. “For now, it will be publicised as his cause of death is a car accident. He hit a utility pole. Have power to the nearby area shut off for the next two hours and someone in a service van parked out front so that anyone driving past will see that it’s being restored. 

“We can knock the pole over for effect,” Perlman said as he got on the phone and exited the shed. 

Margot thought this sounded like the makings of a government coverup. 

*****

“I have been informed you’re an enrolled student at George Washington University,” her father said at dinner that night.

“I’m doing it for Will. I want to show him that I can make him proud, too,” she explained, ready to fight if he challenged her.

He inclined his head slightly. “I’m sure he will be pleased.”

“I hope that you’re proud of my decision as well,” she said cautiously. 

“I am.” She wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth. “Though I have also been informed that you’ve not picked a major.”

Uncle Abel was eating quietly, simply listening to their conversation.

“I thought Will could tell me what my major will be. He’s already decided I shouldn’t become a psychiatrist,” she told her father. 

“Oh?”

Abigail wished that Will had thought differently, but she’d rather do something that would make him happy. “He said it wouldn’t be fair to my patients—I’m too much of a voyeur to want to be a problem solver.”

Her father’s eyes crinkled in the corners as he gave her a very fond smile. “What do you want him to decide for you?”

Abigail paused in eating. “I’m…worried he’ll say politics.”

At this, Uncle Abel frowned and said, “Oh? Would you care to elaborate, Abigail?”

“I don’t want to end up like Aunt Bee,” she admitted. 

“You could never become your Aunt Bee,” her father assured her as he scooped more roe onto his fork.

 _“You thought I might torture animals_ ,” she said in Lithuanian.

“I did. And I was incorrect. Therefore you could not become a politician in the way Bedelia is,” her father replied in English, deflecting any responsibility. “Did Will hint that you would be suited for politics?”

“Yes.” Perhaps it was her fate and she shouldn’t complain. “I think it would be a natural choice. Telling people what to do, hosting dinners to raise money, smiling for a camera. I’m good at those things.” Her father nodded in agreement and so she continued. “And as First Lady, I’m in a unique position. With the experience I’m getting right now, any position I’d want to run for would be half won simply because people know my name.” She made a face. “But it seems as though it’s a lot of work and I’m not interested in that. Which is what Aunt Bee thinks, too.”

“Politics is not as complicated as everyone believes it to be, Abigail. I simply make a decision on a matter and make it so. You must be firm with what you are convinced is the correct decision.”

Uncle Abel nodded in agreement. 

“You make it so easy because people expect you to lead. When they look at me, they see skirts and makeup.” She said this without any pity in her voice, because she didn’t feel sorry for herself—she felt frustration.

Her father nodded. “It’s true that as a woman you will face opposition, that there will be those that do not regard your decisions as ones that are serious. And for that, I am deeply regretful as I know you could become an excellent and merciless leader.”

*****

The Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony in front of the White House was a very publicised event for something that most people didn’t truly care about. Abigail had excused herself, saying she needed to lie down and so Hannibal invited Abel to join him, who was only too happy to have an excuse to get outside. 

On the large platform outside that he had to stand on for delivering his ‘holiday message’, he fought the frustration that they weren’t starting exactly on time as he’d requested. Celine Dion was going to perform the Christmas carols and Hannibal hoped he wouldn’t have to suffer through too many of them as he suspected he would be expected to sing along—he found caroling insufferable. He spoke with her in French for a few minutes before they were told to ready themselves for the presentation to start. 

Miss Mapp had brought him his thermos filled with hot chocolate and brandy and he poured them two small cups. She hadn’t realised he’d made the beverage alcoholic and winked at her when her eyes widened. She smiled at him and quickly downed the rest of it before returned to her organisation of the placement he was to stand before the gathered crowd. 

“This is just like Christmas 2003. Remember how windy it was?” Abel asked amicably. 

“I do.”

“It’s too bad Abigail couldn’t make it,” Abel said.

“She’s a tender thing. It’s best she stay home.”

“I just worry about her, the poor lamb. It would break my heart to see her any sadder.” Then he paused and met Hannibal’s eyes. “I hope you don’t think it’s anything inappropriate. I love her, but in the way one loves family.”

“I know, Abel. I trust you with her.”

Abel nodded, still looking shaken at the implications of what he’d said, but put a smile on his face once more. The singing of carols began and he pretended to participate through all of it, certain his dignity was dying slowly with every word he mouthed. Then the moment to light the tree arrived;Hannibal began the countdown along with Abel, and as the tree was illuminated, he couldn’t help but wish he’d stayed home with Abigail, instead.

*****

 _‘Always remember that the crowd that applauds your coronation is the same crowd that will applaud your beheading. People like a show,’_ Abigail thought to herself as she mentally prepared herself for the evening auction of the twentieth. 

She’d been dragged through the rumour mill of Washington and tonight she’d be around everyone who wished to find something salacious to say about her in the morning. A year ago, everyone applauded her charity work and today they only wanted to point out how contradictory it was that she lectured people about eating responsibly with their scraped together pennies while she went to the opera to hobnob with others that lived in a six-figure annual bracket. Oh, how quickly she’d fallen from everyone’s grace—once, the poor child-princess that embodied rising after tragedy, now reduced to the spoilt rich slut. Fuck, wasn’t anyone going to stand by her side, defend her reputation and character? When she got back to the top and the truth came out, she would not forgive and she would not forget these betrayals. In her mind, there was a running list of those who’d spoken ill of her and she would see to it that they were punished. Given enough time and money, she could destroy them all. She fought the small, wicked smile that played on her lips.

She stepped out of her bedroom and into the hallway where Barney waited for her. 

“You look nice,” he told her as he stood from the bench he’d been sitting on.

“Thank you.”

“We’re using the elevator,” he told her as she began to walk towards the main staircase down to the Entrance Hall.

There were an unusual amount of security features in place for a formal affair and the guests were all checked over thoroughly _twice_. Many of the faces were familiar, the Lecters’ own regulars in Maryland; anyone who’d ever been invited to their table was there and there were a number of high ranking congress folk in attendance, all showing their patriotism by writing cheques.

Abigail was wearing a cranberry red dress with an ivory silk scarf around her neck, not allowing her fingers to play with the little sprig of holly that had been pinned to her chest. Earlier in the evening, she’d rubbed a drop of Will’s atrocious aftershave onto her wrists to keep her company throughout the night. Actually, she didn’t think it smelt all that bad, but what her father hated, she hated. He’d raised an eyebrow slightly, but didn’t comment on the matter, which left her wondering if he found the reminder of Will’s absence an appropriate token of their love for him. Instead, he’d helped her pin her hair up into the simple chignon that he preferred during formal events and adorned her ears with the pearl earrings that he occasionally let her wear from Olimpia Lecter’s collection.

Uncle Abel was to stay on the third floor for the event, something she could see upset him, but nothing he’d voiced aloud. While she and her father had no qualms with him being present, the guests wouldn’t like it and Abigail knew it was better to sacrifice Abel’s feelings than the success of the event. 

All eyes were on her as she entered the East Room on her father’s arm. She didn’t allow her gaze to linger on anyone, though—she didn’t even listen as her father spoke to greet everyone, too intent on maintaining her cool and dignified façade. She’d been informed that there was a rumor floating around that her father was responsible for Will’s disappearance, that it was payback for the supposed affair he was committing with her. As she spread her gaze across the room, she wondered how many people attending tonight believed it. 

Once he’d finished talking, she drifted along at his side, ignoring any attempts to turn the conversation towards her. Eventually she drifted away from him, accepting a champagne flute with a mulled cider from one of the serving staff carrying a tray. She sipped on the drink, watching the guests, judging whom would be the best to stay around for the evening. Everyone here was enough of a vulture to look for the opportunity to feast upon her misfortune, but with Barney standing close enough to her to make it clear he was an agent, they avoided her. 

Triff Komeda and her husband were circling the other guests as well and when Abigail ran into them, her first thoughts were of relief to talk to someone she actually respected, then she realised that they were two of the biggest gossips in the community. 

Triff Komeda always struck Abigail as the kind of person who’d be horrified if her father was ever to be arrested over cannibalism, not because she’d been fed people, but because she’d never get to eat it again if he was in jail. It made her an ally in Abigail’s eyes, albeit one that didn’t know her role.

After polite kisses on each cheek, Triff immediately turned their conversation towards the scandal everyone was so focused on. “Dreadful business, Abigail. About your Mr Graham.”

Abigail nodded and asserted the direction this narrative needed to take. “He’s just a friend. Which makes the situation more tragic, because those terrorists are simply punishing a man based on gossip.” 

To Abigail’s annoyance, Mrs Komeda made a slight ‘hmm’ noise before avoiding Abigail’s eyes as she took a sip of wine. She was someone who wanted scandal and wouldn’t believe her unless the truth was more salacious than the lies. “My dear,” one of her slender, soft hands touched Abigail’s forearm, “I’ve been meaning to ask—would you like to collaborate on something? I know that First Ladies are expected to publish a book during their first term and I haven’t heard a word about yours.”

“I believe I have dibs on that,” someone behind her announced.

It took everything in Abigail’s power not to make a face at the sound of the voice. “Miss Lounds,” she said as she turned around. “You look nice.”

Freddie was wearing emerald green and her hair was pinned up. She raised her champagne glass to Abigail. “Thank you.”

“You’re going to be writing a book with her?” Triff asked behind her. 

“I’ve not decided whom I’ll be writing a book with if I decide to collaborate,” Abigail said. “And I’ve certainly not given Miss Lounds any reason to think I’ll be working with her.” She then gave a polite nod to Mrs Komeda. “If you’ll excuse me, Triff.”

“Of course, Abigail. I’ll find you later and we can chance a talk.”

Abigail turned back around and clasped her hands neatly behind her back as she addressed Lounds. “Yes?”

“You’re not interested in a book deal with me?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “How did you get an invitation to this event?”

“Don’t you worry about that. Just details.”

Aunt Bee, obviously, which meant Abigail had to play nice. 

“I shall allow you ten minutes of my time. Then I want you to leave me and my father alone for the rest of the night.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“And you have to leave my father alone,” Abigail reemphasised. 

Freddie nodded. “Deal.”

Abigail nodded her head towards the Green Room. “This way.”

Once in the privacy and relative quiet of the side room, she sat down on one of the chaise longues and asked, “So what can I do for you, Miss Lounds?”

“Any news about Will?” the other woman asked, sitting across from her. 

“That’s ‘Mr Graham’ to you,” Abigail said coolly. 

Freddie actually looked hurt. “Abigail, I didn’t _want_ him kidnapped.”

“That’s fine for you to say now. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“I _am_ sorry. And I’d offer up my services if I thought they’d help.”

“Anything that’s happened to Will is confidential,” Abigail said pointedly.

Freddie nodded. “Right.”

“He’s alive. And that’s what is important.” Abigail’s eyes narrowed slightly again. “This is all off the record. I’m dead serious.”

“I’m going to use it at some point. But not tonight.”

“How generous of you,” Abigail sneered.

“I’m not a villain, Abigail. I’ve done things to get ahead.” Freddie shrugged. “I know you’re not as nice as you appear to be, but I never write about that, you know.” The other woman raised an eyebrow. “All the times we’ve met? You’re downright nasty to me. Most nice people get flustered and cry when I catch them. But you’re all tooth and claws, like your aunt.”

Abigail crossed her arms. “So that’s my secret you’re keeping? That I’m really a bitch and not America’s sweetheart?”

Freddie smiled. “I’m not going to tear you down for something like that. Do you know how many times a day I’m called a ‘bitch’ because of what I write? Because I don’t back down from a story?”

A small seed of concern was planted. “What will you tear me down for?”

“Oh, Abigail—no offense, but you’re a little decaff to ever have to worry about me trying to destroy your life on purpose. Sure, this thing with Graham is juicy, but—“ Freddie waved her hand dismissively. “What politician hasn’t fucked the staff?”

“I’m not a politician.”

“Yes, you are,” Freddie countered.

Abigail didn’t have the patience to argue and just ignored what Freddie had to say. “They had to let me take the final in Will’s class because I wasn’t taking it for credit and they can’t have a hearing on Will because he’s not here to defend himself.” She was furious that the school had painted Will into a corner. “Professor Foster isn’t happy, from what I’ve gathered.”

“Interesting,” Lounds said in flat tone that indicated she didn’t find it as such.

“Who leaked information about the Chesapeake Ripper thing to you?” Abigail asked, wondering who the leak was.

“I have to protect my sources.”

“I know it wasn’t Aunt Bee.” She softened her tone. “You’d be doing me a huge favour.”

Freddie shook her head. “Sorry. Ethics.What information do you have about Will’s kidnapping?”

Abigail felt a seething rage that she was being asked again, then a cool moment of clarity pierced her. She could use this moment to her advantage. She could make a fool of Freddie, could make the REDDRAGON group so angry that they would have no choice but speak out. Anger made people sloppy.

Her silence no doubt looked like contemplation and she looked at Freddie apprehensively. “You promise you won’t write about it?”

Freddie nodded and smiled reassuringly. “Promise.”

Abigail fidgeted slightly, looked around to make sure no one was listening and then leaned in to talk with Freddie. “The FBI has done a profile on the leader. Um, I wasn’t able to remember everything that they said, because it was all technical terms and whatever,” she said, feigning the dumb teenager people expected her to be. “They say the Tooth Fairy—“

“Tooth Fairy?” Freddie raised an eyebrow.

“Um, if you look at the video closely, you can see he has some sort of ‘thing’ going on with his teeth. They’re all messed up. Jagged and uneven. They thought that was funny. Tooth Fairy.” 

“Funny name,” Freddie agreed with a gentle smile, no doubt trying to encourage more from Abigail.

“Right,” she replied, her own smile small. “They said that the way he’s acting and words to his manifesto indicated that he’s got ‘delusions of grandeur’ and that he feels inadequate around everyone, that he’s the laughingstock of everyone he knows, probably because he was the product of an incestuous home.” She kept her gaze distant so that it looked as though she was attempting to remember things. Oh, this was so much fun! Getting to make up false speculations about someone who was trying to hurt her. “Umm…oh! The thing with his teeth means he probably views himself ugly and that makes him,” she whispered the next word, “impotent with women.” Freddie’s eyes were wide. “They can tell that sort of thing, you know, by speech patterns and the way he stands. Like on ‘Sherlock’,” she added, as though she’d ever watched the show. 

“That’s very interesting. Not someone I’d want to run into.”

“No. He’s a _freak_.” She wanted that word used whenever Freddie posted about this conversation. “If you come across anyone like that…”

“Oh, I’d let you guys know right away.” 

“Good.” Abigail thought that if she was using Freddie, she might as well make sure she was thorough. “Freddie, if you give us any information that helps us find him, I’ll do the book deal. Exclusive.”

The other woman’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes.” Oh, she felt as though she was selling her soul. “Just tell my aunt. No, tell Brian Zeller. Anything you think might be important, give it to him before you publish it.”

“I don’t—“

“Please. Would you really be willing to put Will in further danger just for a story? Wouldn’t you want everyone to know that you were able to help us get him back? Isn’t that, like, the kind of thing journalists in war torn regions do? Use their investigative powers for good?”

Freddie posed her own offer. “Let’s say I do find something that might be interesting. I could give it to you with the understanding that in twenty-four hours I’ll be publishing it.”

“If that’s the best you can do…”

“I have a business. I have an obligation to report. This is the biggest story in the world right now. No one cares about starving children or the Olympics or the Middle East—they want to know how Will Graham could be stolen right out from under the President’s nose.”

Chills ran up Abigail’s spine; yes, that was exactly what happened, wasn’t it? He was pinched from their pockets when they weren’t looking and now they had to force everyone in the country to get on the floor and look under the furniture and behind the curtains for their Will.  

“I’m not…with him.” The words felt painful. 

Freddie looked her over. “I really don’t care. The fact that a thirty-eight year old man is kissing and letting the eighteen year old daughter of his best friend stay the night appalls me. I don’t like seeing young women being taken advantage of. You’re young and you’ll hate me for now, but someday you’ll see that I’m right.”

“So the article was to ‘protect’ me?”

“It’s an interesting story. Gossip,”’ Freddie said. “Tell me about Abel Gideon.”

She had no intention of using Uncle Abel for any sort of scandal. “For the record, Abel Gideon is a model employee, dedicated to advancing the Lecter administration’s goals and initiatives. He has many years of experience in the public sector and is a very talented speech writer. Did you know that he used to write all the speeches he used to give? Not many politicians can do that. He’s a very useful addition to the East Wing and I’m grateful to consult him for advice.”

“And he’s locked away for the night?”

“He excused himself from the festivities so that he can finish moving into his quarters,” Abigail lied.

“You like having him live in the White House?”

“Oh, very much.”

“How do you think his victims’ family feels about that? That he’s getting to live a nice life while his victims are six feet under?”

Abigail didn’t give a shit about the victims’ family. “I think that Abel has atoned for what he’s done. He is doing what he can to help the American people now. I don’t know if his victims’ family will forgive him, but they don’t have to. He hurt them and it can’t be fixed or made better, so they shouldn’t have to accept his apologies.”

“Will you forgive the people who’ve taken Will?” Freddie asked.

“You will call him Mr Graham,” Abigail reminded.  

No, she’d be tearing the flesh off their bones, disembowel them over an ant hill so that they’d be eaten alive, burn down their homes with their families inside.She’d disrespect them to the greatest of her abilities. She’d make Will untouchable—people would fear looking at him lest they face her wrath, too.

“And I’m not worrying about forgiveness or otherwise. I just want him rescued and well. That’s all that matters to me,” she said simply. 

“And Mr Graham? Do you think he’ll forgive them?”

“I don’t speak for him.” Abigail wanted to change the subject. “I—“

Freddie raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“If we were to write a book together, what would—“

Freddie quickly interjected. “I could ghost write the whole thing, if you wanted. We’d just sit down together, record some interviews, you could read it over afterwards and make sure everything was correct.” 

She considered Mrs Madchen. “No interference from my staff.”

“Preferably.”

“It could be my story. The way I want it heard,” Abigail clarified. 

“I’d never censor you.”

“You’d sensationalise it.”

Freddie was quick to correct. “Which is why you could read it over first and we could discuss what bothered you.”

“You’d want me to talk about Will. And Daddy.” She thought about her life before all this and swallowed. “And Hobbs.”

“Yes.” Freddie smiled to her in encouragement. “It could be very empowering, Abigail. To say everything you feel.” 

 _‘I don’t feel anything except what I’m told to feel,’_ she wanted to reply. 

“What would you call it? The book?” she asked. 

“A working title?” Freddie shrugged. “The one I use in my head is just, ‘Abigail’s Story’. But it could be whatever you wanted it to be. It’s just a working title.”

“An agreement that you will honour.”

“I never break my promises,” Freddie said firmly. “If I promise to provide any information I get and said information proves important to finding Will Graham, you and I will work on your book together.”

Abigail nodded. “And you have to wait twenty-four hours between giving it to us and publishing. And you’re not allowed to interfere in the investigation.”

“Abigail—“

“It’s dangerous. You could get killed or compromise the investigation,” Abigail pointed out. 

“Fine.”

Abigail frowned. “I’m serious. The last thing you need to do is get in the way.”

Freddie smirked. “You hate me for this, don’t you?”

“There isn’t even a word for what I feel towards you.”

“At least you’re honest.”

Abigail gave her a cold look.“I feel you deserve that much.”

“It’s been a pleasure talking to you,” Freddie said, glancing up at the large grandfather clock in the corner of the room. 

Abigail didn’t say anything in return, simply drifted over to the nearest agent and murmured, “Miss Lounds is not to talk to my father. Keep an eye on her.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As she entered the East Room again, she took a deep breath to gather her thoughts and centre herself. Someone gently touched her elbow and she turned to see Governor Budge standing at her side.

“Good evening, First Lady.”

“Governor Budge, how nice to see you. Did you just arrive?”

“Yes, I’m afraid our car was held up in traffic.”

“If you’ll pardon me,” Freddie said, walking around them to sort herself amongst the others assembled.  

The governor was dressed handsomely in a hunter green velvet dinner jacket, his trousers and tie a stately black. It was rather bold compared to the other politicians at the party, but Budge wore it perfectly.

“Ah, there you are!” Franklynappeared, wearing a sporting red plaid jacket with mistletoe pinned to his black lapel; in his hands he had two champagne flutes and handed one over to Budge. “Hello, Abigail.”

“Hello, Franklyn. How are you this evening?”

“Good. Sorry, didn’t grab you one,” he said indicating the champagne flute in his hand. 

“I’m fine,” she promised him.

Budge continued. “You look as though you need to be rescued from our small art community. They’re ready to tear you apart.”

“It’s very considerate of you,” she told him, secretly in agreement, but not wanting to look helpless. 

“But favours must be returned,” he told her. “I’ve purchased tickets to the Christmas Jubilee for the four of us, in hopes we might start a new Christmas Tradition.”

“The five of us,” she corrected. “Will shall no doubt be rescued soon and I’m sure he’d like to attend.”

“I’ll have them hold an extra ticket for our box, then.”

She gave a small smile. “You thought I was going to invite Abel Gideon.”

“The thought had occurred.”

“He’s under house arrest, off-the-record,” she told him.

“That is relieving to hear.”

Franklyn nodded with visible relief.

Abigail accepted a glass of mulled cider from one of the servers walking by. “And you? Are you using me to rescue yourself from idle gossip everyone here seems so apt to participate in?”

“I will admit I’m growing weary of discussing the scandal you’ve found yourself in.”

“They can all get fucked,” she said before drinking from her cider.

“You needn’t worry about convincing me,” he promised. “How is your aunt?”

“Aunt Bee is well. Busying herself over Caroline’s appointment as ambassador.”

Budge nodded politely. “Such a fortunate opportunity your kin had by your father’s place in office.”

She made a small noise of agreement. “It’s a little loud in here—would you mind if we moved into the Cross Hall?”

In the White House Cross Hall, connected to the Entrance Hall, a display of themed Christmas trees had been put up. Now that the majority of the night’s guests had already arrived, it was empty save for the occasional server and Secret Service Agent. She walked with Budge and Franklyn, she gestured to a tree that had been themed around music, the ornaments shaped like notes and a scrolling ribbon of sheet music wrapping around the branches stiffly.

“They moved my instruments down here for the displays,” she told them.

“I haven’t heard you play in a while,” Budge said and she remembered that he would attend her recitals, no doubt for voter approval.

“Shall I indulge you, Governor?”

He unclipped the velvet rope that cordoned off the display, letting it trail to the ground as he took her glass. 

As she sat down at the harp, she considered what she would play. 

“Something I’ve never heard of,” he challenged.

But she knew she would have the upper hand, as she planned on playing a song she’d once heard in a video game at Marissa’s house. 

Franklyn’s eyes widened as she began to pluck at the strings. “Oh!”

“You recognise this?” Budge asked skeptically. 

“Yes.” Franklyn looked back at her with a smile, their own small and sudden secret. “But I won’t spoil it for you.”

Franklyn hummed along to the song and while it would normally only last three minutes, she transitioned the end into the beginning once more so the song was six minutes instead. By this point a few other guests—mostly off-duty secret service agents—had joined the impromptu performance. When the song ended, the small crowd applauded and she humbly stood from her seat.

Governor Budge gave a smile and approving nod that she’d managed to best him at his game. “I actually play. Not as well as I did in my youth, but the harp was my favourite before I studied cello.” He raised an eyebrow. “If I may.”

She stood back and swept her arm to the harp in invitation. “Please.”

Governor Budge began to pluck at the strings while she held their glasses, listening to him play. It was elegant and perfectly played as though he’d never stopped playing cello and Abigail was certain he was aware of that. Ah, so now he was trying to compete, a friendly challenge. Whose talent would surprise the guests more?

When he finished, he received applause as well and then he carefully clipped the velvet rope back in place “You never told me the name of the song.” 

Franklyn left to retrieve new drinks for the three of them and as Abigail walked with Budge back into the East Room, she told him. “It’s from a video game. I heard it once and memorised it. The Great Fairy’s Fountain, I think.”

“It was rather elegant,” he admitted. 

Franklyn joined them. “I brought more cider—Abigail, this one is yours. Only a dash of the good stuff.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a quick wink.

Tobias frowned slightly in Franklyn’s direction. “I have a champagne you’ll need to try. I was gifted three bottles last month and the first one was absolutely perfect paired with the almond baklava my sister sends me from Jordan.”

“It tastes like heaven. Sometimes Tobias brings me a piece to share—“ Franklyn started to say.

“Yes, thank you, Franklyn,” Budge said abruptly, his voice just shy of being rude. 

Perhaps to an outsider, it would appear that she and he were flirting with one another, but Abigail was clever enough to understand that this wasn’t how people of their kind flirted—no, this was the way one courted a potential friend. She thought back to how she’d won Marissa over to her side and could definitely see the parallels. Oh, how fun!

“Soon. Once my vigil here has ended,” she promised. 

“Upon the return of your Mr Graham, then?”

The way he said ‘your’ didn’t sound cruel or mocking, simply a fact that a possession of hers had been stolen. Yes, Governor Budge would definitely make a good friend.

“Yes. So generous of you. I hope I can return the favour. Your sister is a journalist in Jordan, correct?”

He nodded. “For Al-Jeezera.”

“How nice.”

“Yes.”

Before they could say more, one of the other guests approached them, someone who’d attended her father’s dinners but was mostly forgettable to Abigail. “Ah, so Tobias is bogarting you, tonight. Shame on you, Tobias—depriving us of Abigail’s company.”

“I’m actually on my way upstairs to bring Uncle Abel some cider,” she lied, taking a step back from the group. 

The name brought everyone’s attention to her; curious glances from the small congregation around her and the guests standing close enough to overhear had paused their own conversations to catch what else she might say. 

“How—“ the woman let out a nervous trill of laughter. “How is Gideon? I met him once at one of your dad’s parties.”

“He’s wonderful, thank you for asking,” she said with a polite smile.  

She could feel that everyone wanted to hear some scandalous information about how he was crazy and dangerous and that she was stupid enough to try to tame the psycho.

She gave a small nod of her head. “If you will excuse me.”

They watched her leave, as though expecting this might be the last time they saw her unmaimed. She took another cider from a server walking past and as she made her way to the exit of the room, she bumped into someone’s shoulder; when they quickly turned to apologise to one another, Abigail saw it was none other than her father’s predecessor.

“Oh, hello. How are you this evening?” she said kindly before Chilton could say ‘sorry’.

“Fine.” He looked at the glass in her hand and asked, “Leaving already?”

She shook her head. “No. Taking a glass up to Uncle Abel.”

Chilton flinched. “‘ _Uncle_ ’?”

“That’s what I called him when I was younger. Habit,” she said calmly.

“I see. Well, don’t let me keep you.”

She gave a polite nod to him and he returned the gesture before standing aside so that she could pass. She made her way to the elevator and had the usher take her to the third floor; when she reached the door to the former music room, she knocked politely and waited a count of ten seconds before the door opened. 

“Hi, Uncle Abel. Are you having a good evening?”

He stood aside for her to enter his room. “Yes, just trying to get my books where I want them.”

Spread out across his bed were his books, sorted in a mysterious way to her untrained eye. How could someone try to fit an entire new life into such a small room, things brought along from a life that had been put on hold, was beyond her. 

She offered out the glass she had in her hand. “I brought you cider.”

“Oh, thank you.” As he took a sip, he offered her a seat on the edge of the bed. “How’s the party? Who have you been talking with?”

“Oh, you know. The usuals,” she said casually. “You’ve not been lonely, have you?”

“It’s strange. To have freedom. I keep waiting for someone to come to the door and tell me what to do.”

“Do you want something to do?” She wondered if she should bring over her iPad and download some games for him. 

“No, I just meant…” He thought for a moment. “I’m accustomed to being alone. I’m sure in time I’ll be able to adjust once more.”

“I’ll help,” she promised.  

“And people wonder why you’ve always been my favourite.” He gently pressed the tip of his finger to the tip of her nose for a second, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“That’s my super power, you know. To make everyone like me,” she told him.  

“I can believe it.” He drank some of the cider and gave her a curious look. “What a dangerous ability—to never know who you can trust because everyone is always smiling to your face.”

She nodded because that was exactly how she felt. “And they think they like me. That’s the worst part.”

He hummed in agreement, drinking more of the cider and she touched a few of the books on the bed, aligning them neatly on the bedcover.

“What did it look like? When you shot them?” she asked when the silence stretched on.

“Oh, well…hold on. I need to sort everything out in the right order.” He glanced up at the ceiling contemplatively before returning his gaze to her and his lip quirked a little. “They looked like they weren’t going to be able to get away.”

“Was there a lot of blood?”

He frowned slightly. “I don’t know if your father wants me to talk about this with you.”

“Has he told you no?”

“No,” he said slowly, contemplating.

She shrugged delicately. “Than he must not mind.” 

“There was a lot of blood. But it was fine. Because the floor was hardwood and I know that it would just take a good sanding and new finish to get any stain out.” He raised his eyebrows, looking at her curiously. “Do you know if the floor stained? I would hate to think of your father having to foot that bill. Though I’m sure when they give tours of the building now, it’s quite a talking point.” 

“They remodeled those rooms so that voyeurs can’t find that space where your wife or in-laws died.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ve got to get back downstairs. But thank you for talking with me.”

“Anytime, Abigail. Have fun at your party.”

Ever the good hostess, she offered, “If you need anything, please let me know.”

“I will. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Uncle Abel.”

Abigail hummed as she walked back downstairs, smiling to Barney. 

In the East Room, she scanned the area for her father: Chilton was listening intently to Georgia by one of the columns, Budge and Franklyn were exchanging words with a very bored looking senator, Aunt Bee was speaking with a few of her off-duty agents. A small prickle on the back of her neck, a sixth sense, and she turned around to see her father standing behind her.

“How was Abel?” he asked, smiling warmly at her. 

“Certain that he was missing out on an interesting party.”

He nodded and gestured to the tables and pedestals set out along the walls of the room. “The auction shall be ending in forty minutes.”

“I’ve bid on that pair of champagne flutes; I think they’d look nice in Will’s house,” she told him.

He looked too polite to publicly doubt her. “Perhaps.”

“I’m also hoping to win the Rockwell for Aunt Bee.” The Rockwell was hideous and she could imagine her aunt happily tossing it into the fireplace. Abigail noticed how one particular member of Congress kept glaring in their direction. “I don’t like how the Speaker of the House is looking at you tonight.”  

“He is certain that if a member of his party was in the Oval Office right now,Secret Service agents wouldn’t be dead,” her father said. 

“Probably right.” She kept a straight face. 

“I hope you win your items,” he told her.

“Thank you. And I hope you don’t win yours.”

“That’s very kind of you.” He left her side to join Aunt Bee.

The auction would be blind, meaning all bidders simultaneously submitted sealed bids so that no bidder knew the bid of any other participant; the highest bidder would pay the price they submitted. Various pieces of art, a few select items of historical furniture, and other pieces from around the White House had been offered up to anyone willing to pay. There was china tea set that First Lady Carter had purchased for the White House at the end of her husband’s first and only term; Abigail and her father found it didn’t match any of the other china in the house and decided to dispose of it in the auction. 

“What will you be bidding on tonight?” she asked Chilton as she came to stand by him. 

“I’m trying for that tea set. Cindy liked it,” he said as he filled out the bidding card. 

“First Lady McCain?”

He nodded. 

“Well, I hope you get it then.”

Before Chilton had been a one term senator for Pennsylvania, he’d been a very successful state prosecutor, known as someone who could make anyone confess on the stand. He’d worked on the Frankford Slasher case and Abigail delighted in the irony that he was powerful enough to get her locked away for life, but had no idea who she was. She could only imagine his face if he knew what she was capable of doing. Despite what everyone else seemed to think of the former President, she actually enjoyed his company. He had a certain charm to him—a pretentious, annoying charm, but cunning and intelligence as well. 

She trailed after him, curious to watch and study him, and while he seemed a little surprised that she wasn’t avoiding him, he asked, “Would it be rude of me to gossip with you?” 

“Not at all.” It sounded fun, in fact. “Spanish?”

“Sure.” He motioned for her to join him in one of the emptier spaces in the room.

While she wasn’t fluent, she spoke conversationally—well enough that she wasn’t left behind as she switched languages. _“I hope you’re not planning on telling me anything rude.”_

_“Not yet, anyway. There’s so much people have been telling me tonight and I’d like to double check a lot of it. After all, you’re a big part of the conversation tonight.”_

How typical. _“How boring.”_

They were interrupted from saying anything further when Aunt Bee appeared by them. 

“Ah, Frederick.” Aunt Bee extended her hand out and the former President took it.

“Bedelia. How are you this evening?” he asked.

“Well. I hope you are the same?”

“I am.” 

“Have you seen Governor Budge yet, Aunt Bee?” Abigail asked coolly, wishing for her aunt to leave.

“I haven’t.” She barely gave Abigail a glance in recognition. “If you will pardon me.”

 _“She didn’t even say ‘hello’ to you.”_ Chilton raised an eyebrow.

 _“She doesn’t have to. We see each other all day long.”_ Abigail didn’t feel in the mood to talk to Aunt Bee ever again.

 _“Oh, before I forget, Cindy wants to get in contact with you. Maybe a phone-conference or something,”_ he told her. _“She’s worried about all the media coverage you’re experiencing. Doesn’t want you to get overwhelmed.”_

She looked at him suspiciously. _“I’m sorry, but what’s your angle?”_

_“Look, this is a favour for Cindy, not because I like you or your dad.”_

“Forgive me for not trusting you,” she said skeptically.

_“I wouldn’t trust me, either.”_

She nodded, willing to consider what he said, but careful not to commit to anything. _“I’ll have my office get in contact with hers. Thank you.”_

 _“Don’t mention it.”_ He looked her over. _“A word of advice? You shouldn’t sleep with staff.”_

She tried not to sneer. _“I’m not.”_  

_“That includes your dad’s staff—“_

Abigail cut him off. _“I don’t need you to lecture me, okay? It doesn’t mean anything when you spout off all sorts of crap to FOX News about my father and I. And Will. Don’t you dare think I’ve forgotten about what you said to Freddie to him.”_

His lip curled in disgust. _“Oh, like no one knew he’s a walking liability. He’s not some sort of saint you need to protect.”_

She stared at him, ready to use the ammunition she had against him. “¿Cómo se dice ‘cock ring’ en español?”

“You can’t prove it.” But his face had paled and his eyes were wild.

“I have people that would be more than willing to snitch to Freddie about it and she would just _die_ to have various sources all telling her the same thing,” she told him. 

“You’re a real bitch,” he whispered angrily. 

She feigned innocence. “You’d better hope Daddy doesn’t hear you say that.”

“And here I thought you weren’t like your family.” He straightened his shoulders, glaring at her. “Have everyone fooled with your little smile and the bow in your hair.”

She forced tears to her eyes, and sniffed as though she was about to cry. “That doesn’t mean they know. And if they see me leaving here with tears in my eyes—“

“Shh, shh!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, hissing, “You really are a monster!”

She gave a small smile as she took a step closer and thankfully he took the hint and began patting her comfortingly on the shoulder as people began to notice.

“Don’t worry—this will look bipartisan. Freddie will see it and make it look as though what’s happened to Will is bringing us all together,” she whispered.

Just in time, her father showed up. “Everything okay?”

Abigail gave a tragic smile, wiping at her eyes. “Yes. Sorry! I just—“

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” Chilton assured a bit loudly to gain attention. “What’s happened is tragic and everyone has Will in their prayers.”

“I just feel so horrible that all this has happened because of what Freddie Lounds wrote—it’s all gossip and now Will is paying the price,” Abigail declared to the gathering attendees. “And the agents that were killed.” She pulled back slightly to look up at the man who was pretending to comfort her. “President Chilton was just—“

“I was just telling her that the GOP is organising all its resources to help find and recover Will Graham. I may not be president anymore, but that doesn’t mean I can sit by idly and let a fellow public servant suffer at the hands of terrorists,” Chilton interrupted loudly to everyone.

“How very generous of you, Frederick,” her father said kindly, accepting Abigail to his side.

“Well, now isn’t the time for Republicans vs Democrats, is it?” Chilton said, pandering to the moment.  

“No.” Her father then looked at the people who’d gathered around to listen to their commotion. “Shall we return to the auction?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

She wiped at her eyes heroically as the guests around her began to leave their circle to regroup by the auctioneer’s stand and once no more pitying eyes remained on her, she winked at Chilton, who looked affronted.

*****

The door to the Oval Office was open and because her hands were busy holding a plate at the moment, Alana said his name to get his attention. “Hannibal.”

He looked up from his desk and a small smile graced his lips. “Alana.”

She entered the office, walking over to the desk with the plate. “I brought christmas cookies. The kitchen is making them for everyone and I thought you might like a few.”

He set aside the red correction pen. “How kind of you.”

He took one and she handed him one of the paper napkins she’d brought along.

Setting the plate down on the desk, she sat down in the chair closest to him. “How are you doing?”

“Well.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean.”

“I am enduring.”

She nodded, feeling terrible that she couldn’t offer him any answers. “If you ever need someone to talk to—to just vent to—I will always be here to listen. I don’t even have to say anything, if you want.”

He reached out and touched the top of her hand with his fingertips. “I know, Alana.”

*****

Will had been handcuffed with police issue handcuffs to one of the safety rails in the shower and he’d been beaten by two of the militia members until he’d no longer been able to stand. The Dragon was sitting in a chair with an old Leica camera in his lap, staring at Will with cold indifference. No, not indifference. This man was a sadist and had watched the preceding beating with a mixture of ruthless glee and clinical calculations. He was not a sloppy man—everything was carefully organised and had its place in this small hell he’d created. He was practical on almost every level, someone who thought before he spoke and was difficult to shake, unless the right buttons were pressed, in which case it would simply excite him into reckless violence. Will wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out the Dragon’s triggers at this point.  

Will had blood dripping in his eyes and one was swollen almost completely shut; he’d never felt such relief as when the Dragon had finally called the two men off. Now he sat on the floor, arms above his head as he tried to catch his breath.

“I have a Christmas present for you,” the Dragon said after some time, his voice quiet and mocking.

Christmas? Will knew he’d been here for a while, but he’d lost count of the days and his stomach suddenly tightened at the thought he’d been stuck here twenty days without any resolve.

“It’s a few days early, but I don’t think you’ll mind,” the Dragon continued.

Will didn’t have the energy to ask how long he’d been here—if it had truly been twenty days, then…then Hannibal was having a hard time finding him. Which meant that either Will’s messages weren’t getting to him or…that the Dragon was a more formidable foe than Will had realised.

The hood was placed back over his head and he was uncuffed from the pipe. It took three of the masked men to carry him from the room and Will wondered what new horrors awaited him. 

*****

Abigail sat between her father and Governor Budge at the Meyerhoff on Christmas Eve; her hand rest in her father’s and she watched the assembled choir singing on the stage.Uncle Jack, Crawford-not-Kennedy, was staying home for the night and her father was certain it was due to Bella’s cancer, a matter that was starting to affect the White House’s topmost offices. 

Behind them, she could hear the small buzz of someone’s cellphone being texted and after a moment, Dr Sutcliffe—who had come along for the night—leaned in.

“Hannibal,” Sutcliffe said in the barest of whispers.

Her father nodded once, returning his attention to the stage. When the song ended, he stood and very quietly said, “If you will pardon me,” before he left the viewing box.

She pulled her hand back into her lap, feeling an ache and emptiness as he left. How could Christmas be so close and Will be missing? She let out a shaking breath; if that was a call about the whereabouts of Will, she’d probably throw up right here, she was so anxious. Every time there was promise of information, she was filled with a painful desire to know immediately and an overwhelming sense of dread that she might be learning terrible news. 

Tobias reached over and patted her hand politely as Silent Night played. She gave him a helpless look, wanting comfort and when his face remained neutral, she looked the other way; it would have been stupid to ask for it from someone like her—compassion wasn’t natural to them. It was only a weakness. 

When Silent Night ended, she turned around to her agent and whispered, “Barney?”

He leaned in, his voice identically quiet. “Yes, First Lady?”

“Do you know what the call is about?” she asked.

“Let me find out.” He spoke quietly into a small microphone hidden under his lapel as ‘O Come, O Come Emmanuel’ began to play. After half a minute, he whispered back to her, “Not about Mr Graham.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t bear to turn back towards the stage, suspecting she’d start to cry, that people would see the disappointment on her face and Barney leaned back in.

“Do you need to get some fresh air?”

She nodded and he stood; following him out of the box, she realised belatedly that she hadn’t excused herself from Budge’s and Franklyn’s presence. Her father was no where insight, though there were agents milling about in the hallway; Barney led her to an alcove that was private, away from where anyone could see or hear them. 

“While I don’t approve of it…” He held out a cigarette that appeared to be the imported brand she and her father smoked, and a metal lighter with the Marines’ insignia on the side. She wasn’t particularly in the mood to smoke,but accepted the cigarette and the light anyway. 

“Thank you,” she said, feeling her eyes build with tears. It was impossible to keep a straight face and she dropped the cigarette to the ground, which left her turning towards him and in a strained voice, asked, “Could you just…?”

It seemed idiotic to hold out one’s arms to their agent, but she needed to be held and he was quick to pull her into a close embrace as she started to cry. 

“Shhh, everything’s going to be okay. Don’t you worry,” he soothed as he rocked her slowly. 

“I just want him back home. I don’t want to be doing all these things when I could be out looking for him,” she sobbed. “And nobody tells me anything because they think I’m a child and that I’m too emotional. I would do anything for him.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re not allowed to know.”

She didn’t understand. “What?”

“Abigail, you’d do anything for the people you care about,” he explained. “And that’s dangerous. The people that took Will know that. If they could make contact with you, you wouldn’t hesitate to give into their demands.”

“I’m not so naive that I’d believe them.” She wasn’t stupid. 

“No, but you’d be desperate.”

“I would,” she said lowly. “I would do anything for him. Or Daddy. But they would only be allowed to enjoy it for a moment, because then I’d come for them.”

“Abigail, you need to stop thinking about these things. They’re upsetting you. And you’re not acting like yourself.”

Oh, yes—she’d forgotten that she was supposed to be the administration’s pretty face, their sweet mouthpiece that concerned herself with gingerbread houses and festive sweaters and being a demure feminine presence. No one actually knew her potential or her wrath and if she didn’t control herself, people would start to see that there was something lurking beneath the surface of her mask. 

She nodded and swallowed down her pain. “You’re right. I’m letting this get to me. This is for Daddy to take care of, not me.” She gave him a half smile. “Thank you for the cigarette, Barney. It really calmed my nerves.”

He smiled and picked the cigarette up off the ground. “Ready to head back?”

“Yes. Do I look okay?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. No one will know anything was wrong.”

“Thank you.”

She slipped back into her seat beside Budge as another carol was performed; he raised an eyebrow at her and she shook her head for him not to worry. He nodded once and returned to watching the concert. Franklyn seemed interested in trying to catch her attention but she just gave a him a kind smile to indicate that she was fine and there was no good news to report back. 

When the performance ended and her father hadn’t returned, Budge and Franklyn offered to walk her back to the motorcade.

“Perhaps…?” Budge raised and eyebrow.

“Not tonight. Daddy and I should get back to the house.” She wished she could break away to explore the potential of a friendship with him, but now was not the time. “When Will is recovered…”

He nodded politely. “Of course. There is no rush.” 

*****

Kade had devoted a ridiculous amount of time to preening for the Vice President’s Christmas Eve party; the day before she’d had her legs waxed, a painful but brief affair, and she’d been moisturising her skin with Nivea for a week straight and had been left silky smooth all over. She took her private car service to the Observatory, touching the expensive jewellery that Du Maurier had couriered over the day before. 

The front door opened as she walked up the steps, a man dressed in an usher’s suit welcoming her and directing her towards the main room hosting the party. Kade handed over her small clutch and the rabbit fur shawl around her shoulders, giving a distracted smile to the usher taking them as she looked towards the festivities.As she stepped through the doorway, she immediately spotted the woman who’d invited her over. 

The Vice President looked radiant in her deep green dress—Kade felt her breath momentarily caught in her throat, but she recovered quickly and waited until the other woman to notice her before approaching. 

“This is Agent Kade Purnell of the Secret Service. She’s been in charge of the shooting incident,” Du Maurier introduced to the people she’s been standing with.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

The Vice President introduced and reintroduced various members of Washington and their spouses, shaking hands and maintaining a professional indifference at names and faces she despised. 

*****

Hannibal had spent the rest of the performance and car ride back to the White House on the phone with a security advisor who’d been monitoring the situation in the Ukraine. It appeared that Putin was making advancements into the country and Hannibal was considering his next move as the head of the United States military.

“Is everything all right?” Abigail asked when they went up to the Residence together.

“Ukraine,” he told her.

“Mmm.” She frowned. “Isn’t it risky for Russia to act this way with the Olympics so soon?”

“It is. And very curious.”

She left to change in her bedroom and he went to his. Undressed, showered, and then ready for the night, he returned to his room to find her waiting in one of the arm chairs set before the fireplace. 

She glanced at the end of his bed. “May I…”

“Abel is here now.”

She frowned, not expecting to be denied. “Please? It’s very lonely.”

“I know it is.”

She looked pitiful. “It’s so hard to sleep when I know he’s somewhere hurting.”

“Yes.”

She frowned again. “Yes, you understand, or yes, you know it’s hard for me to sleep?”

“Are you questioning if hurts me?”

“I am.”

“Both.”

“Oh.”

“Despite what your _father_ has told you, I do feel emotions.” He hadn’t meant for his retort to sound so irritated.

She nodded and said quietly, “I know that.”

He believed her, but after being slighted by her, he had no intention of rewarding her with comfort. “You shall not share my bed with me tonight, Abigail.”

She looked wounded but didn’t attempt to beg further; as she walked out, he was almost tempted to ask her to return. He’d spent a life time alone and he’d enjoyed it, but he found that living in this world _with_ someone to worship him was so much nicer.

*****

It was nearing the end of midnight and there were still guests in Bedelia’s home. The lighting the house softened everyone’s appearance and Kade’s skin glowed, every feature on her smooth and curved. Bedelia knew she’d had too much champagne, but it only made the desire to drag the other woman to her bed stronger. The music playing softly through the house and she sought out the Secret Service agent from the half empty hall she’d been stalking.

She slipped her hand into the agent’s gloved hand. “Come up to my room. The guests will see themselves out.”

Beneath the mistletoe on the staircase, Bedelia pulled the other woman into her arms, carefully choreographing their movements to conceive their perfect first kiss, something with just the right amount of sensuality, just enough carnality. Ever accustomed to making the first move, she pulled away, eyes open to look at the other woman.

Kade let out a laugh in disbelief and then asked in a low tone, “Is _everyone_ in the First Family gay?”

Bedelia raised an eyebrow. “I think Abigail’s the only one engaging is solely heterosexual activity.”

They began to giggle again, their heads tipping together so that their foreheads rested against one another’s. Bedelia led her up the steps, leading her with a finger looped through the necklace she sent over.

Once they reached her bedroom door, Bedelia stopped and said, “I’ve decided that I don’t want this dress to leave my house tonight. You may leave it on the floor of my bedroom.”

Kade clutched at her necklace. “I’m afraid I’ve promised to keep the jewellery on me at all times, so I won’t be removing any of these sapphires.”

Bedelia wrapped her arm around the other woman’s back and began to pull the zipper down. “Good girl.”

*****

Abigail stared around the hallway, trying to decide what to do with herself without crying and finally went to the bench that was in the section of the hall that was in front of her room. She laid down and Winston came over to lie on the ground beside the bench. On the agents came over hesitantly. 

“First Lady?”

“Please dim the lights if you can,” she requested quietly. 

“Is everything okay?” he asked again.

“Yes. Just dim the lights.”

“If there’s something wrong with your r—“

“I’m waiting up for Santa,” she finally snapped sourly.

The agent took a step back. “Right.”

God, these benches were horrible. She pressed her shoulder a little more into the thin cushion, knowing in the morning it would ache painfully. And without a pillow, her unsupported head and neck would be pulled. Good. Good, she wanted to feel pain because it meant that she wasn’t in comfort when Will was suffering somewhere.

*****

“Am I staying the night?” Kade asked, naked and still beneath her, looking decedent in her borrowed jewellery.

Bedelia didn’t particularly like sleepovers, but since the other woman was no longer going to be going home in a dress, she would require something else to wear out of the Observatory, which meant she would have to take something from Bedelia’s closet, which seemed like a hassle.

“Will you make breakfast in the morning?” Bedelia would send her home in gloves and fox stole if she said ‘no’.

“Yes.”

Bedelia stretched out on her stomach. “You can stay.”

“Breakfast in bed?” Kade asked.

Bedelia gave a small smirk. “Naturally.”

In a movie, their bodies would have become entwined and they would exchange soft fondnesses to one another. Instead it was practical. Bedelia fell asleep on her side of the bed, not minding the soft light of the agent’s phone as she sat up on the other side of the mattress, working late into the night.

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Dolarhyde’s complaints about ‘Lectercare’ are curtasy of Donald Trump’s comments on the Affordable Healthcare and Patient Protection Act  
> +Hannibal first met Dr Wellman in Chapter 15 of National Anthem
> 
> +Iztack Perlman is a violin player. if you like classical music, PLEASE listen to his music—he is amazing.
> 
> +Howie Mandel is a television personality.
> 
> +Sotheby’s Institute does not offer a master in counterfeit detection in any of its branches, though the various specialty degrees do offer training.
> 
> +I don’t know if the plural of Swarovski is ‘Swarovskies’ or ‘Swarovskis’.
> 
> +¿Cómo se dice ‘cock ring’ en español?=How does one say ‘cock ring’ in Spanish?
> 
> +This chapter was never ending. There’s actually an additional 3k+ words that I had to edit out bc I knew I’d never get this finished.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place on Dec 25, 2013

Stood in front of the staircase that would taken Abel down to the main floor of the Residence were the two Secret Service agents who followed him everywhere and this morning, neither were allowing him to leave his room.

“Why can’t I go downstairs?” he demanded to know.

The taller agent asked, “Can you just wait in your room for another thirty minutes?”

“But I’ve already had to wait for an hour. I’d like to go downstairs now.”

“Mr Gideon, it’s a security protocol. I’m sorry you’re stuck waiting, but there’s nothing I can do about it,” the other agent said.

“Is something happening? I work for the First Lady—I should be made aware of these things.”

The taller agent held up a finger to indicate he stop talking as he listened into his earpiece, then said, “Okay, you can go down.”

Abel brushed past them; he knew he was a guest in the White House, but honestly, he wasn’t going to deal with being caged up. Wasn’t any better than the hospital! When he reached the Centre Hallway, he spotted Abigail sitting on one of the benches, looking tired.

“Abigail, you look terrible. Did you sleep all right?” he asked, sitting down next to her.

“Not really,” she mumbled.

Abel clucked his tongue. “Perhaps you need to go back to bed?”

“No, no. I can’t go back to sleep.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I need something for my head. It’s killing me.”

“Well, this certainly isn’t the Christmas morning I was planning for,” he admitted aloud and when she started to open her mouth to protest, he stopped her. “No, Abigail. Don’t force it. I’ll go take your dog for a walk and let him use the back lawn.”

He gave a sharp whistle for the dog who’d been sitting at Abigail’s feet to follow him and then made his way to the grand staircase that connected to the main floor of the Residence. The dog followed after him curiously and the agents caught up to escort him down. Seeming to understand they were going outside, the dog began to enthusiastically walk in front of him, ears and tail held high; they exited the White House and Abel was caught off guard by the cold air. Having spent nine years indoors, seasons were something he’d all but forgotten and he felt foolish for offering to go outside without bringing a coat, but it was too late to get anything now and he shivered as the dog ran out to sniff at the base of the tree closest to them. The frost on the grass made his shoes wet and he frowned at them, sticking his hands into his trouser pockets in an effort to warm them. The sweater he had on was nice, but didn’t cut the wind at all.

In truth, Abel had hoped to come downstairs to a Christmas tree, presents, and a warm atmosphere where he could open presents alongside Abigail and Hannibal, the perfect domesticity that’d he craved for so long. And with the medication he was taking, he couldn’t tell if he was being horribly selfish to only think of himself or if it was a completely rational thought to have. Either way, it had been inappropriate for him to voice it—Abigail and Hannibal had offered him so much and he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. 

He’d even arranged—cleverly—to get gifts for the two Lecters, though they would be a bit late, which he was sure they’d both understand. He was especially excited for Abigail’s present, knowing that it was something she’d always wanted and to be the one to surprise her with it would hopefully make up for anything he’d done that they perceived as ‘rude’. 

When he couldn’t stand the cold any longer, he whistled for the dog again and together they went back inside. Abigail was dressed for the day in wool charcoal trousers and a cashmere red cardigan, looking casual but elegant as he’d come to expect of their family. 

“So where are my presents?” he teased her, relieved to be in the warm house again.

She looked caught off guard. “Oh, right. I’ll have the ushers bring them down from the cedar room upstairs and then you and I can open them up.”

“And where are yours?”

She shook her head. “Daddy and I are waiting until Will comes home.”

And it pained him, but he wanted her approval, to repay her for everything she’d done for him. “I shall wait then, too.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—“

The words hurt to say, but he was still able to smile and hold her hand between his. “I shall wait. That’s what family does—we are happy together and we mourn together.”

She hesitated. “If you’re sure. We wouldn’t be upset if you did.”

“Oh, I’m sure your father will have him found in no time and then we can have a belated Christmas. I’ve missed so many of them that another isn’t so bad.” A politician was a person willing to make sacrifices and Abel had always been a politician. “So, shall we start breakfast? Give your father the morning off?”

“This is why you’re my best friend,” she said softly, the appreciation in her eyes warm and encompassing. 

The words were better than anything he could have unwrapped: to be needed, to know he was important. Loyalty was a gift that couldn’t be bought or traded, not the true kind at least. Something, a wonderful sense of greed that he had the confidences she shared with no one else made him forget the presents and led the way to the kitchen.

*****

In the morning, Bedelia awoke to the sound of the toilet flushing in her ensuite and she lifted her head from her pillow to glance drowsily through her mussed hair. She drifted in and out of sleep as she heard Kade quietly walking around the room before finally leaving; she closed her eyes once more and drifted back into a dreamed memory of her Uncle Ted. When she awoke again, it was due to Kade opening the bedroom door with a serving tray in her hands.

“Good morning,” Kade greeted and brought the tray over to Bedelia, who sat up in bed. “Omelette: spinach, cherry tomatoes, ground pepper. Toast, dry. Orange wedges and a mimosa.”

Bedelia was stunned and as she accepted the tray, she said, “My favourite.”

Kade gave her a smug smile. “I know. It’s in your file.”

For that, Bedelia gave her a full and genuine smile. “I think I’ll keep you.” 

The corners of Kade’s eyes crinkled. She was wearing Bedelia’s bathrobe and Bedelia wondered how she’d react to being told she’d have to go home in the gown that was still crumpled on the floor. Probably smile and blush, only mildly embarrassed. The jewellery had been removed and Bedelia imagined it must have been abandoned on the bathroom counter.

As Bedelia spread her napkin over her lap, Kade told her, “Mine’s McDonalds. Really the only thing I’m used to at this point.”

Unlike her dearest cousin, Bedelia didn’t turn her nose up at fast food—it was simply something she forgot about for the most part. The other woman had dropped her bag of food by the door in order to bring Bedelia hers. Kade didn’t join her back in the bed, simply pulled a chair over to Bedelia’s side of the bed and sat down with her paper bag of breakfast as she pulled her phone out to check her morning’s emails and messages. 

Bedelia looked over the other woman’s breakfast and demanded primly, “Let me have your hash brown.”

Kade passed over the food without hesitation as she continued reading her phone’s screen. Bedelia smirked and set it on her plate beside toast, cutting into her omelette with the side of her fork blades. 

“Oh shit.” Kade stared at her screen.

Bedelia paused in her food. “What is it?”

Kade was already setting her bag of food down on the floor as she hurried to Bedelia’s closet. “We need to get dressed and head to the White House. There was another video.” 

*****

Abigail sat beside her father in the Situation Room; they’d been interrupted in the middle of breakfast by Agent Perlman and rarely could something force them to stop eating, even for the sake of appearances, but this was definitely one of them. On the trip down to the Situation Room, she noticed that the agent seemed anxious, which seemed to be an indication that something was different about whatever had happened. She held her father’s hand tightly, worried at what was to come; her abdomen felt hollow, as thought she’d been cored out in the manner one removed the seeds of a cherry tomato. 

As they sat down, Perlman announced, “There’s another YouTube video. This one had to be taken down, as it violated YouTube’s policies. But it was seen by about half a million people before they removed it—took ‘em twenty minutes. Can still watch it all over the web.” 

“Uploaded from a rest stop in Georgia, one of those places that’s got wifi-pay-by-the-minute.” An advisor began to pass around sheets of paper with some sort of police report on it. “We were able to find out the name on the credit card used, a Mr Jeremy Master. Unfortunately, he has an airtight alibi—he and his wife were both stabbed with some sort of awl and robbed of their wallets and the wife’s purse. She died at the scene, he had emergency surgery and gave a statement en route to the hospital.”

“How inconvenient for us,” her father commented, glancing the sheet over.

Abigail felt nauseous, wanting to know what the video was like, not caring about anyone who was stabbed. What did they matter to her? 

“Guessing that they were robbed specifically to get the credit cards,” one of the analysts commented. “But at least one of them was left alive. We’ve already got agents down there working on a description and a sketch of the guy, but we don’t have our hopes up. He said the guy was wearing a weird mask over his face.”

“Weird how?” her father asked, looking up with a raised brow. 

“Like a stocking over it. Woman’s stockings. But thicker? Something heavier knit that obscured a lot of the face.”

“Like winter tights?” Abigail suggested.

“I don’t know. We have someone down there with a material catalogue for him to go through to try to match it. Might help.” 

There was a strange quiet with everyone exchanging glances and Abigail straightened her shoulders. 

“I’m staying,” she said firmly, suspecting that the delay in watching the video was due to her presence. 

“The First Lady may stay,” her father agreed, almost lazily. 

The FBI liaison cleared his throat. “It’s not pleasant.”

“How could a hostage video be _pleasant_?” she asked, trying not to sound snippy.

“It’s…” the FBI liaison avoided her eyes. 

“Are you trying to tell me that he’s being hurt? Worse than what happened to him in the first one?” she asked, the gnawing worry returning. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t watch,” Barney quickly whispered to her.

She shook her head and made sure everyone in the room was listening. “I’m not afraid. I need to see. To know. Will is very, very brave, but when he is rescued, it’s only fair that I know as much of his suffering as possible so that we can make sure he’s getting the care he receives.”

No one said anything else, though it was obvious that everyone disagreed. The screen at the front went black for the start of the video and then began to play.  

“Merry Christmas, President Lecter,” the familiar voice of the leader of REDDRAGON said.

Abigail let out a startled gasp, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as she stared at the screen in horror. Will was writhing and struggling on a table that was tilted at an angle, strapped to it with a hood on and blood on his sweat shirt. A smaller member of REDDRAGON, the one suspected to be a woman, was pouring water on his covered face and he thrashed as he let out horrible, gurgling screams. 

A disconnected memory of her father reading to her about enhanced interrogation techniques in his study at home; the fire place was warm and she was curled up next to him on the couch as he sipped an aged whiskey Jack had gifted him, a heavy manuscript in his lap concerning the war in Iraq. She’d overheard the term ‘waterboarding’ at Sidwell Friends, from a congresswoman’s daughter, and wanted to know what it meant. She’d also very slyly asked if she could try the whiskey he was drinking and he’d allowed her to take a small sip. She’d sputtered and hacked as she had swallowed it down, handing the glass back to him as he almost laughed. After she was able to speak without her voice sounding raw, she’d asked him very curiously if they could try it out on a person and shortly after that particular evening, he’d demonstrated the torture on a county animal control officer who’d cut them off in traffic one morning.

Abigail was no stranger to these sights—it was merely affecting her because it was happening to someone she loved. And now here was Will, _their_ Will, being waterboarded by people who were poor sports that the direction of the country had changed. 

“They’re torturing him simply to upset us,” Abigail said; her voice trembled—she was afraid, but she’d not been raised a coward and she bravely continued watching.

“What kind of health problems could this cause?” Aunt Bee asked her father curiously.

“In his condition, bronchial infection or drowning. Psychological trauma.”

 _‘That should have been me,’_ she thought, mourning Will. 

“Well, we should get him back soon, then.” Aunt Bee returned her attention to the screen. 

The video ended and Abigail congratulated herself for not crying. She wanted to kill everyone for not getting Will back before this had happened to him. The rest of the briefing went by in a blur and when she and her father excused themselves back to the Residence, she couldn’t help the tears that started running down her cheeks. 

“Why are you crying?” her father asked as they reached the Centre Hallway. 

“I’m sorry” she apologised. “I know I'm not supposed to feel pity.”

Her father was quiet for a moment and then surrendered his handkerchief, dabbing it at her eyes. “Perhaps you feel anger.”

“Perhaps. Yes. I'm angry. That's why I'm crying. It’s just a lot of anger to process all at once,” she agreed, grateful that he would allow her this lie.

“Naturally. But you must learn to master your emotions better. It’s not healthy to succumb to these extremes,” he reminded her gently.

“I’m sorry. I’ll do a better job. I just need a moment,” she assured him.

He touched her cheek. “Of course. Join us when you are ready.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t let go of his hand. “We’re going to get to kill them, right?”

His face was a placid mask that revealed nothing to her. “I wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

*****

Up until this point, Will had been kept confined in the small padded box, but on this particular morning, he’d been brought back to a large, upright plywood box about the size of a restaurant’s fridge. He hadn’t been wearing a hood and hesitated to get close to it, fearful of what new tortures awaited one he got inside.

“You’ve been complaining about space—consider it a Christmas gift,” the slight man at his side said, gripping Will’s forearm tightly. 

“Is it Christmas?” Will asked, hoping to gain his bearings for the date.

“Yep.”

Will glanced over at the smaller box he’d been living in for twenty days. “You were going to keep a teenager locked up in a coffin?”

“Lecter would have given in within twenty-four hours. We would have had her sedated the whole time—she wouldn’t have suffered.” Will could feel that lie deep in his bones, like a blade scraping. 

He was pushed into the new box and the door was padlocked behind him. The plywood had a strange and foul smell, something akin to piss and rot; he could feel sand beneath his bare feet and there was just enough room for him to stand up comfortably, to step from side to side, front and back. While having to lie down in a box for weeks had left him restless and uncomfortable, he now knew that he’d had a luxury with the padded foam space. In here, he’d either have to stand, lean again against the wall of the box, or figure out a comfortable way to sit with his ankles cuffed together.

This box was considerably stuffy compared to the other one and he grimaced when he understood why; there were only quarter-sized holes drilled thought the top of the box to let air inside, and while he was certain he could stick his fingers up through them, he didn’t want to risk having them smashed or injured by someone waiting for him to be stupid enough to explore the space.

He doubted this new box had been brought in out of generosity, but he had a headache and couldn’t quite decided on a motive yet. Raising his bound hands, he began to feel his hands around the relatively dark enclosure. He speculated that it had been something kept outside, perhaps a storage unit of some sort. There was something in one of the upper corners and he allowed his eyes to adjust to the minimal light to see that it was a paper wasp nest in the corner of the box, perhaps two or three years old with a few spider webs clinging to it.

“Daddy made it for you. He built it out of the most delicate phillo sheets, glazed it in a garlic butter,” he heard Abigail whisper, flinching when her fingertips came to rest on his shoulders. “There, you can see that spun sugar made to look like spider webs. Sweet and savoury.”

Clarice Starling was in the corner to his left, face cloaked in the shadows. “Take a bite.”

Clarice took a bite of the nest as well and then after his mouth began to tingle, she said, “Oh, I think mine has hornet spray on it.”

Blood seeped out of her eyes nose and mouth.

“Oh my god,” he whispered in horror.

“It might have been rat poison,” she proposed. 

Will forced a finger down his throat, nail scratching the tender skin as he forced himself to throw up; the chemicals burned his tongue and throat. 

He looked up at Abigail. “Why would you—“

“I’m sorry. It was only supposed to be a little bit. You'd only bleed for a minute or so,” she promised.

He felt blood pouring out of his mouth, over his fingers and he looked up at his daughter for help. “Abigail—

“Shh. It's going to be okay. See? I'm going to give you some of mine.”

He looked back down at his hands, which were now clean. Out of the shadows stepped Garret Jacob Hobbs, black and white and grainy like the newspaper photos that once showed him. He dragged the knife across Abigail’s throat and she looked so scared but bravely endured the matter as he continued throwing up. 

*****

For security reasons they’d not attended Midnight Mass and Abigail tried not to be too grateful that it had been at Will’s expense. Georgia arrived during the afternoon when Abigail and Abel were alone in her office; she’d brought hot chocolate and gingerbread cookies from she and her mother. Abigail had elected to practise speeches in front of Abel to get some tips on public speaking that he’d been so well known for and when Georgia had texted to ask if she was needed, Abigail thought it would be good to get a head start on the thank-you cards she’d be expected to send out to her family for the Christmas presents she still hadn’t unwrapped. 

“I’m always here for you, as an employee and as a friend. If you need someone to talk to, you can talk to me,” Georgia said as she gave Abigail a hug.

“I appreciate your offer, but I have nothing to I need to talk about,” Abigail said politely, trying not to think about Will’s screams.

Georgia nodded politely in return.“My mom and I wanted to extend a dinner invitation to you and your dad, if you both need to get away for the night. It, it won’t be anything as fancy as your dad makes, but you’re like family to us.” She smiled at Abigail. “You’ve both been so generous and given us the opportunities of a lifetime, the jobs of a lifetime.”

Abigail didn’t think she’d ever want the Madchens as part of her personal life, but she didn’t need Georgia to know that. She gave Georgia a smile.

“I’ll let him know.”

*****

Will curled onto his side. Unlike the original box he’d been stuck in, he was able to hear muffled noises within the room he was being kept in. This was nicer—he felt safer, instead of the solid sensory deprivation he’d been forced to suffer through. In the background, faintly, he could hear music on loop; he strained to identify what the song was, but all he could guess was that it was something slow and romantic. As his mind drifted off to thoughts of Hannibal and music, he began to touch himself without meaning to. His body warming at the physical contact, even if it was just himself. He imagined Hannibal lying behind him, warm and solid as he'd ever been; closing his eyes, he rolled over onto his left shoulder, trying to conserve the limited heat in the cold space.

Hannibal’s voice filled his mind as he closed his eyes. “Would you ever ask me to stop?”

“Why start now?” he murmured in reply.

It was dark, he was alone, and there was nothing else to do. In fact, he could be killed at any point, so he might as well make his hours as tolerable as possible. And if he died not long after jerking off to the thought of the President of the United States, then that was just the weird humour of the universe. 

His shoulder hurt but it made him remember his Hannibal, the Chesapeake Ripper in the flesh. Teeth softly closing against his skin, need to stimulate sensitive nerves and to remind him of whom he'd truly bedded. It had been tender and filled with longing— _“See? See?”_ —Hannibal desperate to reveal himself. He thought back to one of their evenings in September, when everything in his world had revolved around seeking out the happiness he’d become addicted to.

It had been a relaxed night, a late night, and Will had wanted to be touched. And with Hannibal’s need to placate any of Will’s desires, he’d held Will close and taken him in his hand, whispering soft and devoted words. In hindsight, Will knew Hannibal had genuinely meant it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t manipulative.

But at the time, Will had only seen it as love and had felt that need for him to love Hannibal back; he’d come into Hannibal’s fingers, allowing the other man to milk out each drop as he’d shuddered and gasped. 

He’d felt the firm pressure of Hannibal’s own cock against the back of his thighs and he’d reached a hand back to rest on the other man’s leg.

“I can…” he’d whispered.

And Hannibal had kissed the back of his neck. “No. The favour needn't be returned.”

“I love you.” The declaration had been murmured but honest. He'd meant it from the core of his being. ‘ _I love this other half of me, this part of the universe that doesn't let me feel alone.’_ He could have stayed in bed forever, just basking in the mutual affections for one another. 

“I love you,” he'd repeated and the words had been echoed back to him. 

Now, he wondered if Hannibal had just been repeating his words, an echo in the abyss. 

Hannibal had begun to masturbate with his own hand, head still buried against Will’s neck, kissing and biting and sucking and licking until Will wondered if he might be teased into a possible second erection. He allowed Hannibal to partake in his body freely, not wishing for the world to deny him any pleasure. Because he loved him. He moaned Hannibal's name softly as he felt a bruise being created and Hannibal had moved closer.

Will had rolled over to face Hannibal and kissed him hungrily. 

“Eager boy,” Hannibal had murmured, almost amused. “Do you need more?”

“I love you,” Will had promised. “I love you, Hannibal,” Will had meant.

Hannibal had moaned, eyes closing as his hand brought him closer to orgasm. Will, not needing to be selfish, moved down the bed to align his mouth with the other man’s cock; he licked the pearling at the top of his thick head, but Hannibal refused the offer of Will taking him entirely into his mouth and before Will could suspect it was because of his own subpar oral skills, Hannibal had gently taken the back of his head and pulled him closer so that Will could kiss and nip at the skin of his stomach and hip. Ah, Hannibal wanted to watch Will, the physical sensations themselves not the important part of this fantasy. Will gladly took the opportunity to give that attention to the other man's body, licking stripes and nuzzling, breathing in deeply to find Hannibal's secrets. 

He'd released hotly against Will’s cheek and Will had even been eager to swallow it down, pushing the mucus-like expulsion into his mouth, eyes locked on Hannibal's as he let it slide down his tongue and throat, offering a smile that could only be shared between lovers, private warmth he'd only ever give to Hannibal. No one else. Never again. He was going to die in this box. 

Wills eyes opened and as he moved his fingers, he found them sticky from coming. Wiping his hand on the inside ankle of his sweat pants , he placed himself back into his trousers, zipping the fly once more and curled into himself. He was going to die here and he'd only see Hannibal again by shutting his eyes and remembering. Same with Abigail. And Winston. And Alana and Georgia and jack and beverly and agent brown and even the horrible Vice President.

This is where he was going to die. This was where he was going to die.

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +So sorry that this wasn't finished in time for the new season like last year :(


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place from Dec 26, 2013 to Jan 2, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ homophobic slurs, and demeaning talk from a family member

Hannibal was able to separate himself from misery, especially his own. Which was why when he’d awoken at two in the morning and couldn’t fall back asleep, he’d made his way to the lowest subbasement of the White House and was sorting through the painting storage room with three ushers. Hannibal enjoyed the ushers most out of any of the White House employees because they were polite and not overly familiar. 

“It should be reframed,” he finally decided, looking over an oil painting of a landscape that appeared to depict New Jersey countryside. 

“Any particular style, sir?” the usher named Devon asked, poised to write down any important requests. 

“Dark walnut, two inches, square edging.”

Another usher, Rochelle, arrived with a pot of chamomile tea and poured Hannibal a cup. He was aware that in Wolf Trap, Abigail was burning herself out with the process of cleaning and taking care of Will’s home. As he sipped his tea, he considered how tired she must be—pursuing control and order of anything within her sphere of influence by the act of cleansing, purging, and reshaping someone else’s domain. He thought it was beautiful, reminding him of his younger self. Of course, at her age, he’d had a better understanding of his own abilities, but it was admirable that she was working hard to better herself.

As he thanked the usher Rochelle for the tea, he continued his work. 

*****

The article had been posted and sitting at the kitchen counter, Abigail smiled, reading it over as she waited for her father to arrive for breakfast; she hadn’t gotten any sleep, still running on the large amount of caffeine in her system. She hadn’t been named as Lounds’ source, but it was obvious that it was based off everything she’d said, not a bit of it true. 

END OF THE YEAR EXCLUSIVE:

TATTLE-POLITICS’ INTERVIEW WITH WHITE HOUSE INSIDER ABOUT REDDRAGON

In vivid detail, their conversation had been recounted almost word for word, all the scandalous ( **false** ) details bolded. The militia group looked like a bunch of idiots following some unhinged maniac. Hopefully, REDDRAGON wouldn’t attempt to prove their power by hurting Will—Abigail was truly dreading that thought—and instead channel their anger through some other way. Maybe taking a government office hostage. That might be fun. 

Her father entered the kitchen, rolling up his shirt sleeves in preparation and upon seeing her with her iPad open to Tattle-Politics, he raised an eyebrow.

“Abigail?”

She gave a sheepish smile—obviously, he’d already read it and wanted an explanation for what she’d done. “I wanted to bait them a bit. Force them out of the woodwork the way they caught the BTK Killer. 

“It reads like a very bad psychological profile needed for a television crime-drama,” he told her as he set out the pans.

She didn’t think he was angry with her, but she knew it was only right that she apologise to him for branching out on her own without consulting him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. It was a spontaneous moment and then the stress…”

“The stress what, Abigail?” His eyes held her mercilessly.

“I should have told you. I don’t have an excuse for not doing it,” she admitted. “I hope you aren’t mad.”

He continued with retrieving ingredients. “No, though I think you could have been more creative with the name.”

Yes, she’d thought the same thing upon reading the article over. “It was the first thing that came to mind.”

“Perhaps you are the White House leak,” he said raising his brow again.

She smirked. “Hardly.”

“Good morning,” Abel greeted happily as he entered the room. “What’s on the menu for this morning?”

“The flesh of our enemies,” Abigail said as her father cut the intestine casing off a sausage.

“You have such a wicked sense of humour,” Abel said with a wink in her direction. “Hannibal, if your cooking is half as good as your child rearing, then I know I’m in for a treat.”

Her father smiled and when Abel looked away, he winked at her as well. 

*****

Will cinched the drawstring in his sweatpants to keep them around his hips. He was hungry all the time now and just thinking about food made his stomach ache; he knew that if he was to be presented with food, he’d immediately gorge himself on it, so desperate he was to eat. 

He gave a sad laugh as he thought about how Hannibal might suggest that Will start eating a limb he wasn’t using at the moment. But then that led to him weeping in helpless frustration, which he knew was justified, but still made him feel stupid. All the painful memories of being constantly hungry as a child, of knowing better than to ask for food, of licking the plate clean so he left nothing behind. 

And that he’d fallen in love with a fucking cannibal, who’d been feeding him the remains of his victims. Will began to dry heave, hacking violently as his body tried to reject any memory of being fed human flesh and organs. But he had to wonder if he’d truly reject anything Hannibal would serve him now, if he’d rather starve than eat another person just to stay alive.

“Please get me out of here,” he begged through his tears, knowing Hannibal couldn’t hear him. “Please find me.” 

*****

“Ms Bloom, you look nice today,” Abel said politely as he greeted the ravishing assistant to the Vice President at the entrance of the East Wing.

“Ah, thank you.” She handed over the large cardboard box to him and he accepted it gingerly. “You’re sure you have everything you need?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about me,” he promised, opening one of the cardboard flaps to peek inside. When he spotted the contents, he smiled.

*****

Bella was noticeably thinner, her chemo starting to show its first outward appearances on her elegant frame. Hannibal would be disappointed to see her beauty leave.

“Hannibal, do you have a moment?” she asked, leaning slightly on the doorframe of his office. 

He stood from his desk. “Please, come in, Bella.” He moved to the couches in the office—not so much for her comfort but because he enjoyed his sessions from her without the open pretenses of power dynamics. “How are you?”

“I’m well. How are you doing?” She sat down, smoothing the white skirt of the dress she work. 

“I’ve had better days. But nothing I won’t survive,” he assured so as not to garner unwanted pity.  

“Lecters are made of strong stuff,” she agreed. “I wanted to talk to you about what will happen if Will gets recovered. What the White House plans on.” 

Ah, a topic that Hannibal had not wished to devote too much time to. _If_.

She took his hesitation as an opportunity to make her own suggestion. “I would suggest that if you think the timing won’t hurt your chances for reelection, that you make the announcement that the two of you are in a relationship.”

He’d suspected that Jack had told her the truth of the matter and it was now confirmed. 

“I would be surprised if Will wished to out himself any sooner. He is an incredibly private man.”

“Should have picked a different person to fall in love with then,” she teased gently. She had brought a folio with her and now she finally surrendered it to him. “We’ve revised the obituary in Will’s file to reflect all recent information. It’s slightly more personal sounding than the one from the summer to reflect your…closeness.”

“I hope this is never published,” Hannibal replied in all honesty as he looked it over; all White House employees had a prewritten obituary in their files so that upon their death, the Press Office had something official to distribute during the daily briefing. The closer a person was to the President, the better detailed the obituary was. 

“Me, too.”She gave a small sigh, accepting the paper back from him. “Hannibal, would you want it public that the two of you were more than friends, should he die?”

“I would announce the matter through means other than his obituary.”

“Naturally.” She gave him a look that did not speak of pity, but of shared understanding that neither she nor Will might escape this situation alive. Her own death was beginning to cling to her and Hannibal could smell its faint rot. “I am so sorry this is happening to you. It’s one thing to prepare for your own death,” she said, acknowledging him with a downward tilt of her head—she’d always admired that he was as practical a man as her and he knew it, “But to prepare for someone else’s is burden.”

“Is that how you view Jack’s life at the moment? That he is experiencing a burden because of you?” Hannibal wanted to push her as far as possible without tears—he didn’t want to break her just yet. 

She gave a small shrug of her shoulders. “Oh, I know he is. He thinks this is all very selfish of me. God forbid he knew I’d cheated on him as well.” She met his eyes quickly. “I put an end to it before you were elected to limit any chance of blackmail.”

Hannibal would never be bothered by employees who committed adultery, though he did frown upon the lack of discipline and the level of greed that one had to possess to not simply give up a displeasing partner for someone else. But then, perhaps it was something he’d never understand and therefore couldn’t judge except based on his own preconceived notions of what it meant to have a loving relationship.

There was a small knock on the door and both Hannibal and Bella stood as Jack invited himself in, eyes widening a fraction upon seeing her. 

“Oh! Hi, honey.”

Bella’s expression softened and her smile was warm and inviting. “Hello,” she said as she allowed her husband to kiss her on the cheek. “I was just on my way out.”

Hannibal walked her to his office door and murmured, “Until we speak again.”

She gave the smallest of nods. 

*****

“What do you have in that box? If you needed to move more things in here for your desk, we could have just sent an usher here this morning to set it up for you,” Abigail told Abel as she watched him walk back into the office. She hoped he hadn’t found knick-knacks to put on his desk. 

“Actually, I thought we might go into the conference room?” he suggested, nodding his head towards the doors and still holding the box.

Always willing to humour him, she stood and opened the conference door open for him, pretending not to notice the cautious look Mrs Madchen was giving the situation.

“Now, I know you said you didn’t want Christmas presents—“ He scowled at her. “Don’t make that face! I’ve been locked up for nine years and this is the first time I’ve been able to celebrate with more than buying myself a new book with my allowance.”

She nodded, because perhaps it was selfish to deny him the right to celebrate a holiday he’d been unable to celebrate fully for years. “Okay. Sorry.”

“And here you are.” He gave her an encouraging smile and nod to take a look inside the box. 

She opened the cardboard box and saw a sleepy looking puppy curled on a blanket. “Oh my god, you actually got me a puppy?”

He was grinning ear to ear now as the puppy looked up at them. “I remember how badly you wanted one when you were just a child! And I know Mr Will Graham gave you one of his dogs, but this is a puppy! You’ll be able to raise it the way you want.” 

She held her hand out to the little animal so it could smell her. “Did you get Daddy’s permission?”

“I did.”

Honestly, she was surprised that he’d allowed it. “So he thought it was a good idea?”

“Oh, you know how great minds think alike.”

“She’s great,” Abigail said with a laugh as the puppy licked at her fingers. “I’ll send Georgia to get all the necessary things puppies need.”

“Alana’s nicknamed her ‘Applesauce’,” Abel informed her, reaching in to pet the small creature. 

“Alana?”

“Oh, Alana got her for me,” he said offhandedly. 

“Wait, Alana knew about this?” After Abigail’s fight with her Aunt Bee, she was surprised Alana would have anything to do with her.

“Well, I couldn’t very well ask for a puppy myself, now could I?”

Something about this didn’t seem right. “Uncle Abel, how did you get this puppy?”

“Well, you’re lucky I’m a very clever man despite all the medications they stuff down my throat. I went to the delightful Alana and told her that one of my therapies involved getting a pet, you know, something I could care for and have responsibility over to help stablise my life. And I’d seen a flier in the canteen that one of Phyllis Crawford’s technicians had puppies available, so I asked Alana if she would obtain one for me to take home to my new apartment.”

“You don’t…” Abigail stared at him as he rubbed the puppy’s belly. “Uncle Abel, she’s going to figure out pretty quickly that you gave the puppy to me. That you tricked her.”

He shrugged, not looking at her. “Oh, that’s not going to matter to her when she sees how happy you are.”

Damnit, Uncle Abel was supposed to be her responsibility and if he had to go through Alana to get something, Abigail was certain that it meant her father had no idea, as he wouldn’t have fulfilled the request himself. How was she going to clean up this mess. 

“She shall need a better name. Daddy won’t settle for Applesauce. Why would you even name a puppy that?” Abigail commented, petting the puppy, who was now trying to find her way out of the cardboard box.

“She fed it a cup of applesauce while she waited for me to arrive to pick her up,” he explained.  

Abigail let out a sigh, her mind in overdrive trying to figure out a way to keep the puppy as well as make her father happy. “Laume. Because they sometimes appeared as brown dogs.” When Abel looked up at her confused, she explained, “Laume are a type of Lithuanian fairy.”

“That’s a good name.” 

The conference door opened and Georgia stepped in. “Abigail, your dad’s calling.”

Fuck. Of course he’d already know, the secret having reached his ears either by Alana or agents. Picking the puppy up out of the box, she left the conference room, Abel and Georgia following her. Laume struggled in her arms as she took her phone out of its cradle.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hello, Abigail. I’ve been informed you were given a puppy for Christmas.” 

“I didn’t ask Uncle Abel to get it for me,” she said quickly; as much as she wanted to keep the animal, she wouldn’t at the expense of his happiness. 

“I see.” He was quiet for a moment and she winced. “Shall you bring it over to my office to introduce me to the new addition to your pack?” 

“I need to wait until Georgia comes back with the leash and collar.” She silently motioned for Georgia to leave and buy _anything_ for her. Georgia nodded and ran over to her desk to gather her purse and coat.

“Very well,” her father agreed, ending the call. 

“You’re not in trouble are you?” Abel asked, sounding worried.

Abigail quickly put a smile on her face. “No! He was just a little surprised.”

Now that the call had ended, a handful of her staffers had come over the new puppy, fawning over her. Georgia’s trip had bought her twenty minutes before facing her father, which she assured Abel she could do by herself. The leash and harness were nylon in apple green, nothing she would have picked out personally, but nicer than the pink she’d half expected; as she manouvered the little puppy into it (who’d let out a few excited howls much to everyone’s delight), Georgia informed her that she’d already had an usher take up the other puppy accessories to the Residence.

As Abigail left her office with Barney at her side, he told her, “If your dad won’t let you keep it, I know my sister would be happy to take her. She’s got a yard and she loves taking her pomeranian on walks.”

Abigail nodded, grateful that Barney was providing her with a solution should her father not remain open to the possibility of a new animal for the First Family.

“Abel is well meaning, but I think sometimes he forgets that my dad—“ she paused, nearly saying _‘that my dad kills people who can’t abide by his rules’_. “That my dad is a very particular man.”

She was ushered into the Oval Office without having to wait and she whispered for Barney to stay outside. He gave the puppy a quick pet and mouthed out ‘you’ve got this’ in encouragement to her.

Her father was standing by his desk and she made sure to look as demure as possible as she brought the puppy over to him. Winston was smelling the air, ears up and head tilted in curiosity.

“What have you named her?” he asked, looking the little animal over.

“Laume.” 

His eyes met hers. “Because they were said to take the form of a brown dog.”

She nodded, taking his recognition of the name as a good sign. “Alana called her Applesauce, though. I don’t know if that’s a nickname I’ll keep.”When he raised in eyebrow, she quickly explained, “He had Alana get her for me. He wasn’t exactly truthful to her.”

The puppy was enthusiastically attempting to lick both of their hands, which he was actively avoiding. “Is Laume house trained?”

“I think she’s a little young, but I should probably take her out.”

He used his index finger to inspect her teeth. “Do you want her?”

“I don’t see why not. And I think Will will be excited to have a new puppy in the family.” She hoped that he would agree and not deny her this simply for the sake of doing so. 

His inspection of the dog over, he waited to speak once the puppy stopped its excited barks at Winston, whose tail was wagging. “I shall take her out while you talk to Alana.”

Relief flooded her. “Thank you.” 

She handed the puppy over to her father carefully and let Winston sniff at her hands for a second before her father led the two dogs over to the portico door. Not wanting to waste any time or her good fortune, gave a thumbs up to Barney, who grinned at her and together they hurried over to her aunt’s office; bracing herself for anything Alana might still be holding against her. Walking into the busy room, she ignored the stares of the staffers, thankful that Barney had placed a hand on her shoulder for either support or to indicate to her aunt’s office workers that she wasn’t there to cause trouble.

“Is Alana here?” she asked her aunt’s head secretary.

“She’s in the office, ma’am,” was the very polite reply.

She nodded and stepped around the secretary’s desk, knocking politely on the door; she knew that everyone in the office had texted Aunt Bee that she was here at this point, so the door opened for her almost immediately.

Abigail took a step inside, Barney still holding her by the shoulder.

“Hello, Aunt Bee, Alana. Could I speak with Alana for a moment?” she asked her aunt.

Aunt Bee gave her a smile as she rose from her desk. “Be quick.”

Aunt Bee walked past her and Abigail gave her a small nod of appreciation. Alana looked at her curiously and Abigail greeted her demurely as well. 

“Hello, Alana.”

“Hello, Abigail. How are you?” Alana was reserved, hesitant; Abigail wondered for a moment if she was afraid, but decided that wasn’t really Alana’s nature.

“I’m fine. Um, I wanted to talk to you about the puppy you got for Uncle Abel.”

Alana’s brow furrowed. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yes. The puppy is okay. But he actually lied to you about the therapy animal part. He gave me Applesauce as a Christmas present.”

At this, Alana’s eyes opened a bit wider. “Oh, if you don’t want—“

“No, I’ve always wanted a dog and he remembered that, which is why he thought it would be perfect. But he’s still so worried that people expect the worst of him and he thought you wouldn’t help him get me the puppy, so he lied to you.” She straightened her shoulders—she’d never liked having to be held accountable for things. “So I’m apologising for his behaviour.” She gave a smile. “And thanking you for the help you offered him.”

Alana nodded, relaxing. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

“That would be wise,” Abigail agreed. She took a step back. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Alana told her and Abigail nodded again.

*****

Hannibal watched as Winston sniffed the new puppy over and he fought a sigh. He already felt imposed upon to have the first dog, who was at least trained and a former possession of Will’s. Laume was just a thing that would create dander, unwanted hair, and make noise; it was a stupid little creature and while it made his daughter smile, he would much prefer Will to raise it first. He grimaced for a second at the thought of the name ‘Applesauce’—honestly, Alana had never been particularly creative with names. 

The puppy sniffed all over Hannibal’s shoes, tongue lolling as it looked back up at him. Winston looked up at him as well, tail wagging as though he was happy with this strange turn of events. He was joined by Miss Mapp out on the portico. 

“I’m not really a dog person, I’m afraid,” Miss Mapp said as she kept her distance, eying the puppy with caution.

“Nor am I,” Hannibal admitted quietly. “Come along, Laume.”

The puppy gave a small yip and followed along after him, Winston eagerly at his side; he led the puppy to the patch of grass he usually brought Winston out to.

“Is it for Abigail?”

“Yes. Abel managed to get ahold of it for her as a Christmas gift.” He watched the puppy start to nibble on the yellowing grass and he gave a small tug on the leash to indicate that it wasn’t supposed to do that. “She’s always wanted one.”

“Was she happy?” Miss Mapp asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s good.” She added with a bit of humour, “I’ll get the lint roller for your suit when we get back in the office.”

He gave her an amused smile and gestured with his hand that he wished to return. The puppy happily ran alongside Winston back to the office, its little paws trying to keep up with the bigger dog. Abigail was waiting for him inside the office and Winston and the puppy ran over to her.

“I shall need to talk to Abel about bringing animals into the household without consulting me first,” he told her.

“He said you thought it was a good idea,” she said as she picked the puppy up. 

“He did ask if I thought you’d been taking care of Winston properly and I offhandedly agreed that you had,” he told her. “I shall have to talk with him about boundaries, it seems.”

The puppy was struggling to get back down to the ground again to be with Winston and Hannibal retrieved the other dog’s leash to keep him in the Oval Office; it wasn’t out of any emotional attachment to Winston, but for practicality—the puppy would be distracted by the older dog and Hannibal needed Abigail to teach the new puppy that the White House required a certain level of behaviour, even from animals.

“You shall take her out hourly to ensure she does not have an accident. She may have her bowl of water and food by your desk, so long as they are placed on mats that will prevent any straining of the floor,” he instructed her. 

“I will.”

“Remember, your office place is meant to be a quiet workspace so that your employees are productive. You will be strict with her that she is to be quiet, understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said obediently.“I’ll take very good care of her. You and Will will be very proud.”

*****

Ardelia had finally been given an office of her own, a small and cramped space that the President had very graciously had painted and refinished to look like a very small, compact version of the formal rooms in the White House and not just a converted closet, which was what she was pretty sure the room had originally been. But it had a name plate on the front of the door that said ‘Ardelia Mapp, Personal Assistant to the President’ that she’d taken a picture of immediately and texted to all of her family members. The walls were a warm persimmon colour and the wainscoting was a very fine beadboard that made the room seem taller. 

This was the one place she could really make her own and she’d embraced it for all it was worth, bringing along one of her favourite cobra lilies from home to sit on her desk; it was a difficult plant to cultivate and one of the few hobbies she had that she was about to bring to work with her. Try as she might, Ardelia wasn’t exactly the person everyone thought she was.

If she were to put a label on herself, she would have to say ‘goth’, which was rare in the political world and even rarer because she was black. But she loved the dark underbelly of Washington subculture—there was conspiracy, murder, and almost everyone was a double-crosser. She’d grown up regarded as very odd, but bookish and at the top of her class; her type of goth then had been heavy eyeliner and too many ankh necklaces— now it was more refined, a subtle effect of black on black with hints of grey. At least she had the luxury of getting to wear black every single day and no one thought it strange—sure, she’d been coached to wear ‘fashionable things’ by the Vice President’s office, but that was easy enough to keep monochromatic. And besides, she wasn’t there to act as a model—she didn’t stand out in the comfortingly dark clothing. Corperate goth, perhaps. Lots of black skirt suits, dark dresses, light grey oxfords, and dark lipstick. It was a uniform. And she’d had to lose all her ear piercings, just keeping the regular conservative singles that she often wore her slate grey Tahitian pearl earrings in. She didn’t even dare consider what they’d say if she showed up with black lipstick.

She’d been at a fund raiser when she’d met the Vice President; at the time she’d been attending with a group of her fellow political science majors from Georgetown with their department head. She’d not even wanted to go, suffering from slight indigestion, but she worried about any networking she might miss out on and went any way. Halfway through the luncheon, the Vice President had locked eyes with her and frozen in place, she’d watched the woman approach. They made small talk for a moment, the Vice President giving a bit of attention to her peers then asked if she cared to accompany her to the drinking parlour that the country club hosted. It had all been very surreal and she could see that her classmates were jealous. Once they were alone, only two Secret Service agents in the room with them, they’d settled back into the leather recliners that smelt faintly of cigars and the Vice President had made her a classic whiskey highball. The Vice President had then questioned her about her school work, her personal life, and upbringing before asking her to pick five things about the Lecter Administration that she’d change. That had easily been the most frightening thing to answer and she’d realised she was being tested for something, but didn’t know what. But Ardelia was honest and replied with sincerity that if she thought there were things that the White House could do differently, it would be a better Lectercare website, a firm answer on the KXL Pipeline project, state intentions with the Ukraine and Syria situations, and soften the President’s public image somewhat.

The Vice President had been quiet for a moment, taking small sips of her drink and Ardelia had dreaded she’d crossed some sort of line; Du Maurier had then asked how she’d feel about a job at the White House, did she think she’d be capable to act as the President’s personal assistant to replace the injured Will Graham. Ardelia had laughed, shocked and then said ‘yes’, because who could turn down a job like that? During the time of her background check, Ardelia had been able to transfer all her classes to online agreements to accommodate her new schedule. 

And now here she was, almost two months later with an office and desk of her own. At the moment, she was organising a new schedule for the President to replace the missed meetings he’d had recently from the constant updates about the conditions of Mr Graham. There was a small cd player on the small shelf beside her desk and she had all over her favourite cds and cassettes she’d kept over the years; she really only enjoyed goth and industrial, the occasional nuwave if she was in that kind of mood. She’d put on her favourite ‘Bauhaus Greatest Hits’ cd mix she’d burned five years ago, put it on ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’, and set it on a quiet repeat. 

It was grim, but she considered that somewhere in the world, Will Graham might be dead, too. And that perhaps somewhere in the future, distant or tomorrow, that some goth band would dedicate a song to the tragic demise of someone who’d been tortured for the camera and for the nation’s sake. Maybe when the song came out, there’d be kids wearing black and grey plaid shirts with their black thrift store bought suits, their faces unshaven or at least their hair in messy curls. The mandatory angry eyes and blank face, something that could be achieved by any gender—she could already imagine three of her high school friends adopting the look had it been presented while they were still growing up. Will Graham goth aesthetic, only slightly more strange than low-key-government-office-friendly goth aesthetic. She kept swallowing back her laughter and looked up at the clock on the wall. Almost eleven. Okay, she was tired and her thoughts were getting ridiculous to an unacceptable level. Time to go home. 

“Bela Lugosis’ dead,” she whispered along with the song. “Bela Lugosis’ dead.”

*****

“President Lecter, we have new information for you,” Agent Perlman said as Hannibal met with his advisors in the Roosevelt Room.

He had finished an afternoon meeting with his cabinet and hoped the men and women in this room wouldn’t bore him as greatly as the past three hours had.

“Upon further review of the film, our experts noticed something about the method of Mr Graham’s captors’ waterboarding,” the CIA liaison informed him. 

“It’s American, isn’t it?” Hannibal asked, not surprised in the slightest. 

“We are currently reviewing the files of every person who was involved in ‘enhanced interigation’. But the problem is it might be a private contractor, so we’re reviewing their information as well, which will take longer.”

Hannibal didn’t want excuses. “Why?”

“Company privacy laws.” 

“We have the Patriot Act, do we not? A company’s civil rights do not trump a matter of national security.”

The liaison was a man who pandered to whomever wielded the most power—at the moment, he seemed caught between wanting to please the President while securing his good standings with the companies his agency slept with. “We want to stay in good standing with those companies, though.”

“Then don’t let them know you are spying on them.”

Perlman smiled at him from across the table.

The advisors didn’t look happy, but had no choice to agree with him. “Yes, sir.”

*****

“What did they say?” Abigail asked that evening in the kitchen.

Little Applesauce was crated in the warm bathroom with plenty of newspaper, fast asleep with the heater warming the space. Winston was stretched out in the Centre Hall seating area, not allowed in the kitchen when they were cooking.

“It would seem that our Will’s captors are ones trained in the method of torture. The style they used follows the techniques of our nation’s ‘intelligence gathering’,” her father informed her as he rolled sheets of fresh pasta.

“Guantanamo Bay?” she said curiously.

“Very likely.”

“But that narrows down the list of possible people, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

She frowned. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“There is a possibility that the person we are looking for is not military, but private security, someone who trained our military in regards to enhanced interrogation.”

“Oh.” That did add more to investigate in an already overwhelming large number of people. “But they’re still on a list, aren’t they?”

“Yes, and private companies are willing to hide information to protect their employees.”

“I see.” She really didn’t—if it were up to her, she’d start boiling CEOs in oil until she got what she needed. “Is there any way we can threaten them?”

“There are legal teams already at work on the matter. I’m sure they will be forthcoming with the information.”

Abigail frowned as she mixed the ground lamb and spices together. “What we need to do is scare the American public into thinking that these companies hire complete lunatics and that—“

Uncle Abel walked into the kitchen. “I’m not late, am I?”

“No, Abel. You are right on time. Abigail and I were preparing the ravioli for dinner tonight.”

Abel smiled. “Sounds delicious. What shall I help with?”

*****

Will had been waterboarded again and this time there hadn’t been a camera, which meant it was simply for the Dragon’s amusement, a display of power to those under his control. It had been a vivid and terrifying ordeal, something that was burned into his mind permanently—if Hannibal ever offered a lobotomy to remove the memories, he wouldn’t hesitate. Will had been left shaking and had vomited water twice since returning to The Box, his throat and sinuses burning from the expulsion of the water from his body. The smell of watered down bile had permeated the soft cushioning he was stretched out on and even the air filtration system seemed to have a hard time wiping out the scent. 

He wanted nothing more than to be a million miles away from here, some where that Abigail was at; she would be so happy to see him and he’d never let her out of his sight. He’d walk down the path that led from the little house on the bayou he’d lived the first four years of his life, along the cypress trees with bare feet that collected the dust on his soles. He’d walk beneath spanish moss and a hot, bright sun, three dollars clutched tightly in his hand to pay their closest neighbor for picking up bread and eggs at the market for them.

There had been a fork in the road: one took you back out to the coast and the other took you to town. Will’s dad had carried him down that path innumerable times before he was able to buy the truck that Will had spent an eternity riding around in up and down the Mississippi. Will wasn’t sure what direction to take and he took a step backwards in confusion.

He sensed someone was behind him. 

Abigail stood in the direction of the bayou, clutching the hunting knife that had gutted the young man who’d broken onto the property in Boring. She was jumpy and Will took a step towards her.

“People are weak, Will. We can tolerate fear pain anger hatred but we cannot handle sadness. We fear sadness. No one seeks that out. We fear only sadness.” She held a knife to her throat. “I would rather die than feel sadness.”

“Don’t hurt yourself. I’ll come home. Just give me the knife, babygirl.”

“Promise me, Will.”

He held up his hand so she could see the scar on his palm.

“When I cut it, I think I was too close to the nerves and the scar tissue grew into it,” she told him. 

“Me, too.” He thought for a moment. “Are you repeating my memories?”

“Are you repeating my memories? How do you know that you’re the one dreaming this? Maybe it’s me,” she proposed.

“Maybe it’s me.” It had to be him. “Abigail, give me the knife. You could hurt yourself.” Trying to make sense of the situation, he asked, “Tell me something only you would know.”

“Um…” She thought for some length of time that allowed the sun to rise and set behind her. “My dad used to teach me how to tie fishing lures during the summer break from school.”

He shook his head sadly. “I taught you.”

She tried again. “When I graduated from high school, my dad gave me a book of poems.”

He wanted to cry, knowing now that he wasn’t safe, but trapped in his own mind. “I’m the one dreaming this. You can only remember what I know.”

“Do you love me less?” she asked.

“No.” He held his hand out again. “But you need to give me the knife.”

She handed it over to him and he tried wake himself. She was holding the plastic bag that held the bread and carton of eggs.“I don’t want to go home. He’s been drinking again.”

Will turned to look back up the road, knowing what she was trying to say. “He always sent us to the neighbor’s because he knew Mrs Beaufort would let me stay over for a few hours out of the sun and I’d be fed and watched. I met a dog for the first time at her house. She had two little pomeranians who were old and sneezed all over everything and just lied around the porch.”

Abigail looked sad. “I found her on the kitchen floor. She’d passed out from heat stroke and I didn’t know what to do. I sat in there with her and tried to get her to wake up.”

Will nodded slowly. “Her son came over to borrow her car and found us. He called the ambulance.” Will’s eyes watered, remembering how terrifying and overwhelming the whole situation had been as a young child, feeling Mrs Beaufort’s son’s fear and worry as his own. “I hid under the kitchen table and I thought my dad was going to be mad at me for not bringing home the food.”

“Who’s going to call the ambulance for you, Will?” Abigail asked. 

He reached up and found he was bleeding from where she’d slit his throat. The knife was back in her hands and he found he was the one carrying the groceries. 

“Don’t try to use your empathy on me, Will,” she hissed, leaning over his body, which now lay on the ground. “These memories are mine. _Thief_.”

*****

“I’ve made your favourite,” Hannibal said as he set Abigail’s plate down in front of her.

But she merely stared at the lunch and said softly, “I want Will’s favourite.”

“I am afraid that I wouldn’t know what that is.”

She nodded, blinking slowly and body relaxed. “May I have some tea?”

He shook his head as he sat down at the table beside her. “I cannot send you back to your office in that state.”

“I need it.”

“Self-medicating is a dangerous thing, my love. You know how I feel about it.”

“I’m in the middle of a crisis,” she pleaded. 

“I know, sweetheart. But it truly takes just once to become seduced by the ease of something that removes the edge from your day.” He’d had a very brief time as a teenager where he’d thought perhaps he was becoming addicted to sodium thiopental.

“Just this once?” 

“No, Abigail. You’re an adult now and I expect you to deal with your problems like an adult.”

Her chin wobbled and she choked back a sob as more tears feel from her eyes. “That’s just making me feel worse.”

“Oh, my princess. I know.” He placed his hand over hers. He felt detached entirely to her pain, but he knew the appropriate way to address her feelings was not to ignore her as he was want to do. “Tonight we shall go to the theatre room and watch a movie together. It’s been almost a year since we’ve done that, hmm?”

She wiped at her eyes. “I’d like that.”

“I shall even have the ushers bring us popped corn and candy. Would you like that?” he offered.

“Yes.”

Satisfied that she was putting her emotions aside, he let go of her hand and began to start on his food. “I shall select something for us to watch together.”

“Could we watch ‘American Psycho’?” she asked. “I always like when you do the dance like Patrick does.”

“I think I could arrange for that. Though I can’t guarantee that any dancing will occur.” It couldn’t hurt to offer her more. “What about ‘Fargo’? I seem to remember that you like the wood-chipper scene.”

She nodded, now starting to smile. “I’d like that.”

“See? All you needed was a moment to collect your thoughts,” he told her, hoping she saw that logic and intellect always deserved to reign before emotion. 

“Still feels like the end of the world,” she told him as she picked up her fork. 

And for that, Hannibal could not disagree.

*****

It had never been said out loud while he was growing up that homosexuality was a Bad Thing, but there had been a night when Will was seven and he’d watched his dad and some other men beating the shit out of a man in the parking lot of the boatyard. The words hadn’t needed to be said. The message was clear. And so Will never considered it to be an option. That the way he thought about women was mild, and the way he felt about men was pushed away and hidden and just not allowed. 

He saw that he was in a bar and the only person there was his dad, sitting at the counter by the beer taps; Will sat down where the counter turned towards the wall, a good twenty feet away, but close enough that in this dim light he was still able to talk to the man. His dad was focused on the beer he was hunched over and Will saw that the old television above the bar was playing an eternal loop of Hannibal smiling at the crowd who’d come to watch him get inaugurated last year. 

“A faggot, Willy?” His dad sounded emotionally drained, exhausted from the hard and sad life he led and Will felt a pang of guilt fill him at knowing he’d just added more pain to everything. “You go off to college and this is what you decide to do with your life? You could have gotten some high paying job and you know a woman wouldn’t leave you if you have money. And for what?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s it? You’re…” His dad looked so disgusted, shaking his head and staring into his glass of beer. “This is because I coddled you.”

Will had never been coddled in his life, and bitter rage filled him, but he said nothing as his dad continued.

“I should have been stricter with you. Shouldn’t-ah let you read all those fag books.”

Will wanted to remind his dad that he’d been the one who’d bought him a poetry book for his high school graduation.

“Shouldn’t-ah let you go off to Washington DC—‘course they’d have people like that to make you all messed up in the head,” he muttered, drinking heavy from the glass. 

“I’m sorry,” Will said, meaning it. “But I can’t help it.”

“Should-ah took you to church more often. Made you go to bible class,” his dad continued.

“The bible wouldn’t have helped—“

“Don’t talk back to me! I didn’t slave away every day for you to take it up the ass!” his dad shouted, causing the tv above to bar to crackle with static. 

Will wished the earth would swallow him whole. “I love him—“

“Fucking disgusting—“

“I am not. And there are worse reasons to love Hannibal Lecter,” Will insisted. “But why do you care—I’m finally happy—“

It was then Will realised that this bar was a tomb, and like the pharaohs of Egypt, his dad was spending the afterlife with the only thing that had ever comforted him. His dad shook his head again. 

“I’m just glad I’m dead.”

*****

Hannibal had decided that it might be nice to continue the tradition his Uncle Robertas had started of painting the family portrait on New Year’s Day. Sat at the desk in the family room, he carefully sketched out the three people he thought of when the word ‘family’ came to mind. He traced Will’s guarded expression, Abigail’s impish smile, his own neutral calm; and when he was satisfied with the outline, he pulled his watercolours out of the desk and with a wet brush, began to paint the muted colours of his the brightest part of his life. After some time, Abigail left her place on the couch where she’d been reading to come view his work.

While they’d never been a physically affectionate family, he didn’t mind Abigail’s hand resting lightly between his shoulder blades. 

“I can’t believe…he’s been gone for almost a month,” she said softly as he painted her lips a soft pink. 

“I am sorry that the nation’s finest have failed to return him to us,” he said in reply.

She kissed his cheek and rest her head against his. “Happy New Year.”

*****

_Hannibal sits at his dining room table in Baltimore. His head turns and he looks at the painting of Leda and the Swan on the wall above the mantle place and his lips quirk slightly. There are lit candles on the table, arrangements of peacock feathers, ostrich eggs, horse-head ferns, and strands of pearls spilt across the rich tiger maple of the tabletop. A yellow jacket flies around the room and he watches it with curiosity, another hint of a smile as he sees it come to land on an open venus flytrap by the bottle of wine. It begins to walk across the stick surface and then the plants shuts around it._

_He looks up to the dark half of the room, where the end of the table is swallowed in the pitch black. Someone is sitting there and he quietly waits for them to reveal themselves. There is an expertly grilled piece of shoulder meat neatly cut into strips on his plate—he considers that recoil might have made it tough._

_The guest sitting at the other end of the table is revealed to be Clarice Starling. She wears a crimson gown, something that looks sophisticated and expensive to adorn her toned body. A light unseen focuses on her, spinning from multiple angles so that she is illuminated in an unusual manner, the way a child might hold a flashlight while telling a ghost story. It’s a violet light and colours her skin and dress with a strange glow, something that’s been living in the deepest parts of the ocean._

_“Good evening, Clarice,” he greets._

_She smiles, the simple smile she’d only just began to reveal to him before she’d died, not the cheap pasted expression she gave everyone above her pay grade. “Hello, Dr Lecter.”_

_“You look beautiful,” he compliments as his eyes study and memorise how she looks in evening wear. He imagines taking her to his bedroom afterwards and removing that dress from her with the utmost care before engaging in the second definition of ‘eating’ a person._

_She looks genuinely surprised, touching her fingertips to her broken neck. “Do I?”_

_And now it is his turn to give her a smile, one that is warm and speaks of the fondness he has for her. They eat in companionable silence, the light focused on her now a warm golden glow that moves endlessly so he sees the shadows on all sides of her face as the focus rotates._

_“How is your food?”_

_“I liked Miriam,” she says sadly, resistant. She’s refused to eat the meat._

_“I liked Miriam, too.” He indicates to her plate with his fork. “Eat your dinner, Clarice.”_

_On her side of the room are large spiderwebs and beautiful monarch butterflies resting on them. He glances back to Clarice—she’d worked as a page for Senator Jame Gumb, who raised butterflies and moths. Hannibal wonders if she brought the insects along with her when she came to the dining room. Bedelia had sniped Starling to come work for him and Hannibal had never considered that perhaps Ms Gumb hadn’t liked having an employee stolen from under her nose. Perhaps the Secret Service should consider that angle in their investigation to Starling’s death._

_A tear slides down her cheek. “I don’t want her inside me.”_

_Hannibal glances down at her stomach, which is rounder than he remembers, pushing out against the crimson of the dress._

_“You don’t want to be a mother to Abigail,” he observes._

_She shakes her head. “No. She’s not mine.”_

_He is disappointed, but she is young and he can’t begrudge her the independence she has now. “I am sorry you feel that way.”_

_“Is that why you killed me?” The light on her now is a pale green, because she is buried in the earth, food for plants—had she not been embalmed and entombed._

_His voice is gentle, polite. “No, Clarice. Your death…”_

_She nods as he doesn’t finish his sentence. “It wasn’t personal. I know.”_

_Clarice sighs heavily and looks down at her plate. Her hand is still tracing over the vertebrae that isn’t settled properly in her neck._

_“What do you hear, Clarice?” he asks._

_“The lambs are screaming.” Another tear slides down her face. “Even here, they’re still screaming.”_

_Hannibal takes another bite of Miriam Lass and cannot hear a thing._

_*****///*****_

 

 


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place from Jan 3 to 9, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers in this chapter at the bottom notes. Includes spoiler pertaining to said trigger.

Hannibal was lying in bed, waiting for the morning wake up call he received every morning from the US Navy. He’d awoken to the sound of hail against his bedroom windows and though it had turned to rain, he was restless and unable to sleep. Finding his phone off the nightstand, he logged into his twitter account and considered what he wished to type as his quote of the day. Most politicians didn’t have access to their own twitter accounts, leaving that task to a staffer to accomplish and considering most politicians weren’t savvy enough understand twitter in the first place, Hannibal understood that he had an upper hand on representing who he truly was. 

He had a small catalogue of quotes saved to his phone and he scrolled through them until he found one to copy and paste into his twitter feed. 

_Dreams and reality are opposites. Action synthesizes them.-Assata Shakur_ # _quoteoftheday_

He smiled briefly, considering the amount of controversy that particular pick would garner, considering Ms Shakur was a fugitive from the US government, residing in Cuba, and had a bounty on her head by law enforcement. He could already imagine the reactions different police departments would give about him picking the words of a convicted cop killer to share with the nation.

As a rare change of pace, Jack arrived for breakfast that morning and Hannibal suspected there was an ulterior motive; after Hannibal had politely invited him to join he, Abigail, and Abel, Jack stopped mincing words. 

“You’re going to get a lot of criticism for the Assata Shakur tweet,” his Chief of Staff pointed out as Hannibal prepared omlettes. 

Hannibal merely smiled. “I did not become a poliitician thinking I would be loved.” 

*****

Will had decided to pass the day by whispering the lyrics to every Beatles song he knew; as he curled up on his side, exhausted and uncomfortable from the cold, he sang the only song he could remember over and over.

“Once there was a way…to get back homeward. Once there was a way…to get back home. Sweet pretty darling, do not cry. And I will sing a lullaby…” 

Will’s head rest in Hannibal’s lap and he felt Hannibal’s finger’s carding through his hair. Sweet pretty darling, do not cry…

*****

Freddie pulled into the parking structure linked to the physical address for the Tattle-Politics headquarters; it was an older garage and with the rented office came a parking space that had her name on it. In bold yellow, the name FREDERICKA LOUNDS had been stenciled onto the concrete wall, a perk she was pretty sure she’d never have received at The Gotham Tribune, even if she’d slaved her ass off for years. She wasn’t an idiot—even with her own dad as the Tribune’s editor, it had been hard enough for him to get her that shitty socialite gossip column ‘The Tattler’, that she’d never make it to a writing position that she wanted, like White House Correspondent. So she’d made herself a job; ‘The Tattler’ had become focused around the local political world’s biggest players, bringing scandals and public interest to light. And then when she’d been (humiliatingly) fired from the Tribune, she’d capitolised on the connexions she’d made and her fifteen minutes of fame by starting Tattle-Politics. It had been hard and a lot of work, so when she pulled into the parking garage and saw an idling van in **her** parking space, she hit the brakes of her car violently.

“Asshole!” she hissed in annoyance. 

She had a standing appointment with the Vice President this evening and it was shit like this that frustrated her to no end—why couldn’t people respect fucking reserved parking? If the moron that had parked here had left their car unattended, she would key it up and call a tow truck to have it removed, but the van was still running and she put her car into park, jumping out and storming over to the driver’s side where she could see a person sitting. 

“Hey, uh, excuse me—is your name Fredericka Lounds? Because I’m pretty su—“

A hand grabbed her roughly by her hair and before she could even let out a squeal, something terrible smelling was pressed against her face. She thrashed for a few seconds, but found herself slumping against the door of the van as she blacked out.

*****

Bedelia tapped her fingers impatiently on her leg, then adjusted her watch band and looked down at the face again, despite already knowing what the time was. It wasn’t like Freddie to be late. Ever. The woman’s entire life revolved around being early and then even earlier than that. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t voice what it possibly was that made her know that. Instinct. The parking spot with Freddie’s name was empty and even if the spot had been taken, Freddie would have waited by it.

Yes, something was wrong.

“Drive through the structure slowly. I want to see if her car is here,” she ordered.

Freddie had five cars that she kept on rotation, as it made things easier for her when she was staking someone out or playing undercover. They were all beat-up throw-aways that she’d bought for under five thousand a piece (Bedelia had pulled the records on them); dutifully, to protect her greatest asset after Hannibal and Alana, Bedelia took to memorising all of Freddie’s cars and spider-hole hideaways. She scanned the parked cars and finally pointed to a little black hatchback with a DC license plate.

“There.” 

Her car came to a stop and she motioned for the agent closest to the door to go check the vehicle. He climbed out and spent a good seven minutes poking around and investigating while she waited, then came back and declared he hadn’t found anything unusual. 

The fact that nothing unusual had been found was unusual in and of itself. 

She gave a soft sigh and motioned for her driver to get them out of the parking structure. “We need access to all the security cameras in this area for the past two hours. I believe something has happened to Ms Lounds.”

///*****///******///

Francis Dolarhyde had never been one to do things by half measures. In a small abandoned warehouse in New York, He’d prepared the final scene of Ms Lound’s life, something that would reduce her to the piece of filth she was and demonstrate that He was on the cusp of becoming something so much larger and greater than anyone anticipated.  

The warehouse had a small bathroom attached to the office overlooked the large space. There was a shower—a small, pitiful space that had large rust and calcium deposits on the tiles. Even though He’d come here by himself, He considered the space as His own and had set it up to His own preferences. The mirror above the sink had been broken and there were a few emergency candles He’d sourced from a dusty box in the storage locker downstairs, which He’d lit and set around the small space. It cast a golden red glow across His face and bare body, though left most of Him in shadows. 

He’d poured a few bottles of the essential oils into the basin of the shower; one of the men in His unit was a Wiccan and had sworn by them and while Francis had been skeptical, once He’d tried them as a therapy for His nasal, sinus, and lung discomforts, He couldn’t believe He’d lived without them. 

He’d been running the shower’s hot water and the room was filled with steam. His muscles were loose and the feeling of silk against his skin was almost sensual, not that he’d ever thought He was a man who’d experience anything He’d describe as sensual. He actually considered the moment powerful, awe-inspiring.

He rolled his neck and shoulders, eyes closing and snorting loudly through His nose; His heart was beating firmly in His chest—He felt so alive. Adrenaline, the essential oils—He was experiencing a high that only success in battle brought. 

The steam from the shower had loosened everything in his lungs, had cleared his sinuses in a way that the sea air didn’t always do; he stood in front of the mirror, and with the steam filling the room, the scar between his mouth and nose was hidden. He exhaled through his nose and the steam blew around as though he’d exhaled it himself.

Francis Dolarhyde, _becoming_. 

He wrapped his kimono around his body, knotting the sash securely around his waist. Leaving the bathroom, He padded softly barefoot out of the office and down the metal steps to the main warehouse floor where the van He’d stolen was parked. Set up was a large projector that displayed massive images on north wall of the warehouse and when He was ready, it would show the many trophies He’d claimed in His name. Lounds would witness each one and _tremble_. 

From the back of the van He rolled out Freddie Lounds: Lounds wore nothing but her underclothing, a gag, and a blindfold; though she was semi conscious, she did not slump. In fact, she sat up very straight, her head against the high back of the old oak wheelchair; from the back of her head to the soles of her feet she was bonded to the chair with the epoxy glue.

“Are you too cool? Would you like a blanket?” He asked as He watched her.

Dolarhyde removed the gag and blindfold. Lounds didn’t answer. The odor of chloroform hung on her.

“I’ll get you a blanket.” Francis had an afghan He’d snagged out of a charity donation box at the laundromat and it still had the smell of incontinence on it. He tucked it around Freddie up to the chin, then pressed an ammonia bottle under her nose.

*****

Freddie’s eyes opened wide on a blurred joining of walls. She coughed and started talking. “Accident? Am I hurt bad?”

A voice behind her: “No, Ms Lounds. You’ll be just fine.”

She tried to move and found that she couldn’t; her body stung unusually and a thought occurred to her. “My back hurts. My skin. Did I get burned? I hope to god I’m not burned.”

“Burned? Burned. No. You just rest here. I’ll be with you in a little while.”

If she was burned, why was she sitting up? Her head didn’t seem to want to turn left or right. “Let me lie down. Listen—I want you to call my dad’s office. My god, I’m in a striker frame. My back’s broken—tell me the truth!” There was more silence and then she cried out, “What am I doing here?” The question was shrill at the end.

“Atoning, Ms Lounds.”

Freddie heard footsteps mounting stairs and a few seconds after that, she heard the faint echo of a sink running. Her head was clearer now; she remembered reaching the parking structure where she was supposed to meet Du Maurier, vaguely of the drive over, but she couldn’t remember after that. The side of his head throbbed and the smell of chloroform made her gag. Held rigidly erect, she was afraid she would vomit and drown. She opened her mouth wide and breathed deep. She could hear her heart. Freddie hoped she was asleep, but as she tried to raise her arm from the armrest, increasing the pull deliberately until the pain in her palm and arm was enough to wake her from any dream, it became apparent that she was not. Her mind gathered speed. But straining, she could turn her eyes enough to see her arm for seconds at a time. She saw how she was fastened. This was no device to protect broken backs. This was no hospital. Someone had her. 

Lounds thought she heard footsteps on the floor above, but they might have been her heartbeats. She tried to think— _strained_ to think. “Keep cool and think,” she whispered to herself. “Cool and think.”

The stairs creaked as someone walked down and Freddie noted the sound of their weight in every step. A presence behind her now and her heart pounded. Freddie spoke several words before she could adjust to the volume of her voice. 

“I haven’t seen your face. I couldn’t identify you. I don’t know what you look like. Tattle-Politics. I work at Tattle-Politics, would pay a reward…a _big_ reward for me. Half a million, a million maybe. A million dollars.” Yeah, she could have her lawyer wire that much for her release.

Silence behind her. Fuck, should she have offered more?

“What do you think, Ms Lounds?”

_‘Put the pain and fear away and think. Now. For all time. To have some time. To have years. He hasn’t decided to kill me. He hasn’t let me see his face.’_

“What do you think, Ms Lounds?” her captor repeated. 

“I don’t know what’s happened to me.” That seemed like a safe answer.

“Do you know _Who I Am_ , Ms Lounds?”

She let out an anxious laugh. “No. I don’t want to know you, believe me.”

“According to you, I’m a vicious, perverted sexual failure.”

Freddie winced. _Shit_. Shit. Shit. There was only one person who could be pissed enough at that accusation—  

“You know now, don’t you?” he asked, his voice cool.

Don’t lie. Think fast. “Yes.”

“Why did you write lies Ms Lounds? Why do you say I’m crazy? Answer now.”

“When a person…when a person does things that most people can’t understand, they call him…” She tailed off, suddenly hesitant of saying the word. 

“Crazy.”

How to turn this conversation around? “They called, like…the Wright brothers. All through history—“

“History. Do you understand what I’m doing, Ms Lounds?”

Understand. There it was. A chance. Her father’s voice reminded her, ‘ _Swing hard_ ’. 

“No, but I think I’ve got an opportunity to understand and then all my readers could understand, too.”

A second of quiet again. “Do you feel privileged? 

She forced a smile on her lips. “It’s a privilege. But I have to tell you, pro to pro, that I’m scared. It’s hard to concentrate when you’re scared. If you have a great idea, you wouldn’t have to scare me for me to really be impressed.”

He was quiet again, then said, “Pro to pro. You use that expression to imply frankness, Ms Lounds. I appreciate that. But you see I am not a pro. Not a man. I began as one, but by the grace of God and my own will, I have become Other and More than a man. You say you’re frightened. Do you believe that God is in attendance here, Ms Lounds?”

“I don’t know.” That was the truth. 

“Are you praying to him now?” He sounded amused, curious. 

She usually kept religion to herself, but truth would benefit better. “Sometimes I pray. I have to tell you, I just pray mostly when I’m scared.”

 _Like right now_. 

“And does God help you?” he asked. 

“I don’t know. I don’t think about it after. I ought to.”

“You ought to. Um-hmmm. There are so many things you ought to understand. In a little while I’ll help you understand. Will you excuse me now?”

His voice was so quiet and polite at the end, that she flinched.

“Certainly.”

As he walked away, dread began to fill her. Oh god, she’d written he was impotent with women and since he was in a mood to prove himself, that meant she’d be an easy target for ‘proving himself’. Instinctually she tried to bring her legs together, to protect herself, but she was glued down and couldn’t, which caused her to panic and let out a strained cry as she began to cry again.

Water running now.

Footsteps out of the room. 

Freddie thought it must be night. Du Maurier was expecting her. Certainly she’d been missed by now. A great, hollow sadness pulsed briefly with her fear. She was shaking uncontrollably and when he returned, she felt as though she was about to jump out of her skin she was so anxious.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered.

If she couldn’t fight him physically, at least she could fight him verbally. “No.”

“Oh, but you _must,_ Ms Lounds. You’re a reporter. You’re here to report. When I turn you around, open your eyes and look at me. If you won’t open them yourself, I’ll staple your eyelids to your forehead.”

“No!” she begged, keeping her eyes tightly closed as she felt the wheelchair she was in being turned 180 degrees counter-clockwise.

“Open them,” he ordered, touching her eyelids.

“No—I don’t want to see you while you do it!”

“Do what, Ms Lounds?”

She let out a high and anxious keen; god she didn’t want to say it. Why was he making her say it?! “Rape me,” she sobbed, feeling defeated. 

There was silence and she wished she could hide her face as she cried, so fucking scared.

“I’m not going to rape you, Ms Lounds. I do not require that.”

Her eyes were still squeezed shut. “Promise me.”

“You demand _promises_ of me?”

“Please, promise me. I’d rather be burned alive,” she begged. 

There was more silence and then,

“I promise. Open your eyes.” 

She hesitated a moment and felt his fingertip on her eyelids. She looked.

A very large man was kneeling in front of her, wrapped in a very cheap looking silk kimono; he had a mask pulled down over his eyes and nose, something that looked as though it was made of old pantyhose. She would never wear those again. He held a cup to her and she took the straw in her mouth. Tea with honey. Jesus Christ, she’d never drink this again, too. He began to smile, revealing a horrible set of mismatched, ghoulish teeth, all jags and stains. She almost choked on the tea at the sight of them, but realised that maybe she could distract him, pretend they now had some sort of professional work relationship.

“I’d do a big story,” she said between sips. “Anything you want to say. Describe you any way you want, or no description, no description.”

“Shh.” He pulled the cup away and she sucked the last drop of liquid off her bottom lip. “Now, I have something for you to see.”

Freddie wondered what sort of awful thing he had planned and jerked in surprise as a large image of a bank suddenly appeared on the wall of the warehouse. The image changed to another bank, and then another, and after she’d seen three more, the images began to show the insides, where there were bank tellers on their knees, hands up and crying.

“These are the banks that have funded the American Revolution,” the man said as the images changed.

The photos then showed the tellers dead, executed on the floor of their banks and Freddie knew then that this man was someone who simply didn’t care about human life.

“Oh god,” she breathed as she looked at the up close shot of an executed man who had a bullet hole through the centre of his forehead. 

These photos were trophies, private exhibits of his own power and he was showing them to her, his voice filled with pride as he described the death that had befallen the people whom President Lecter was forced to bail out, banks that were ’too big to fail’. Innocent people whom this psycho was willing to takeas collateral damage in his quest for a revolution. A few of the bank names were familiar to her, and she tried to remember if she’d seen them on the news for bank robberies, but that really had never been her field of expertise, so why would she have ever given it much thought if she _had_ seen it, and now he was showing photos of Abigail Lecter that had been taken from a telephoto lens, of her agents, of the vehicles she’d been taken to class in and oh god—

“You know, if you hadn’t written your article, we’d have her right now. But you scared her off and rather than throw away all the considerable effort we put into this plan—two _years_ worth of work—we have Will Graham.” He leaned in closer to her ear and she could hear the glee in his voice as the image on the wall changed to a photo of Will Graham handcuffed to a safety handrail in a shower, looking startled and upset. “Do you know what I’m going to do to him?” The image changed to show someone in a ski mask with a piece of white pvc pipe in hand advancing towards Graham, who was looking frantic. “I’m going to break his back. Snap it right in half.”

“Jesus,” she whispered, voice trembling. 

The image now showed Graham being beaten by two men with pvc pipe batons in hand.

“If the President steps down, and the Vice President steps down, we’ll bring him back to Washington with a broken back, nothing more. Do you think Abigail Lecter will fuck him then?”

“Oh god.”

“And if the President doesn’t do what we wish, we’re going to break Graham’s back and while he lies there on the ground, unable to move, I’m going to cut him apart, limb by limb. We’ll film it so that everyone can see.”

“Oh god!”

“I think the President could appreciate that, being a surgeon. I’ll start with his fingers and toes, then his nose and ears—starting small,” the man murmured in her ear.

The image on the wall showed Graham bleeding and trying to protect his face.

“Piece by piece. I’ll cut him up until he’s just a torso and head. He’ll still be alive. I’ll put him in plastic barrel and then slowly start to fill it with water. Everyone can watch as he starts to drown.”

Freddie wished she would be struck deaf and she was hoping she didn’t throw up because she had a vivid imagination that was allowing her to picture it entirely.

“Then I’ll have each piece of his body mailed to a different news network. They’ll have no choice but to report on it. Which piece does Tattle-Politics want?”

She was crying now. This lunatic was beyond sick and depraved and she just wanted to go home. The man then stood back from her and she could hear him walking not far off and then back to her. He had her iPad and he held it out at her. 

“It needs my fingerprint,” she said through her sobs. “Right, index.” 

He pressed her finger to the section of the tablet that scanned her finger and it came to life after confirming who she was. Her eyes were torn between watching him doing something with her tablet and the images on the wall, and finally he turned the tablet back towards her and she saw he’d pulled up her website, which she stupidly hadn’t logged out of so it was ready for a post.

Setting the tablet down in her lap, he took a few steps away to retrieve something yet again. Oh god, she knew she’d disable Siri, but maybe fate would smile upon her and she could get help by speaking to the tablet. But luck wasn’t on her side and after she’d mumbled a few quiet pleas for Siri to answer her, the man returned and he had two pieces of lined notebook paper with him. He took the tablet back and began to fiddle with the screen again until he placed it back in her lap and she saw it was ready to record her voice. He held the sheets of paper in front of her and firmly informed her, 

“I’ve prepared something for you. Do not deviate or I will cut _your_ fingers off.”

She nodded frantically. He touched the small red button on the screen to start recording her voice. As she read, she attempted to sound as calm and composed as possible, thinking about how when this posted, she’d go down in journalism history—fuck Gotham Tribune for not keeping her on! She would have been their next Geraldo Rivera! 

When she finished, he remained in his crouched position beside her and she stayed silent as he worked with the tablet screen again. 

“Published. Which means I have no need for you anymore,” he said after a minute as he stood up.

Panic hit her hard. “Please. Please,” she begged, desperate for some other sort of option. “I can’t end it like this. There have to be more messages, right?”

“All of which I can deliver myself.”

She tried to sound positive, needing to make the best business pitch she’d ever made in her life. “With as large an audience as I have? I have connexions. My dad—my dad is the lead editor of the Gotham Tribune. I could have things posted—“

“I have the internet. Why do I need you when I can do things myself?” he asked.

“Don’t all great visionaries need a messenger? I could be your messenger,” she pointed out desperately.

“One who slanders me?”

She tried to shake her head. “I was writing what Ab-Abigail told me.”

He was silent, staring at her face as though searching for any lie. “The First Lady?”

“She—“ That little bitch! “She must have been fucking with me. Saying things to make me look like an idiot. She—she hates me, has always hated me. I told her we were talking in confidence and she knew I’d write eventually so she gave me false information so that when I wrote it, it would be wrong.”

He was quiet for a moment and then said, “I know you are close with the Vice President. What of your loyalty to the White House?”

“Screw them! They’ve lied to me!” Her eyes ached and she knew she must look ridiculous and pathetic, but if it was going to keep her alive then, damn it, _oh well_.

There was silence and he turned away. Freddie steeled herself for whatever was to come next. 

“Very well. I do have one last message you can deliver for me. _Living_.”

///*****///******///

Will was suspended in the waters where the bayou met the ocean; the water was slightly clearer and deeper here, and he stayed where he was, staring at mangrove roots in the sediment above him. He was upside down and he could feel the current pushing and pulling him back and forth in gentle yawns; time passed and he watched a few minnow swim past, and then a large alligator float along the bottom of the water, above him. He felt no fear as he watched the natural world continue around him and it was then that he sensed he was supposed to be looking for someone. In the red, earth tinged waters—stained by the decay of the bayou—he spotted her. 

She was Bedelia.

Wrapped up in a cloudy plastic drop cloth that had once been clear, she was upside down, too, and she’d taken on the qualities of corpse that had been kept underwater; sure enough, she had a long noose like rope around her neck and at the other end were two cement cinderblocks, sunk to the bottom. Instinct told him her arms would be bound behind her back and like he at this moment, one leg was straight and the other was bent at the knee—The Hanging Man. Her face was mostly obscured by the plastic and her eyes were clouded over and had burst capillaries from being strangled, no longer red, but a chocolate brown as the blood within her had soured.

“Hannibal lost his virginity to you.” He recalled that the women found in this way had all been gruesomely assaulted. 

“Naturally. I thought I owned him.” Her mouth didn’t move when she talked.

Bolero began to play throughout the waters and Will could feel that soon the conversation would swell into something important. He wasn’t sure he could face whatever the conclusion. All of this felt like something he’d witnessed before, but he couldn’t quite place when or how. Will’s thoughts began to shape and form as a shadow passed below them, a shrimp trawler. 

“It was on the boat he named after you.” He recalled the familial tone Hannibal had used speaking about the craft at Hyannis Port. _Honey Bee_.

“A tribute to his feelings for me,” she agreed. 

“Not love.”

“No. A certain fondness.”

“He finds you interesting.”

“I’m lucky. The ones he has no interest in have no point.” Her tongue was bloated and black and a small water beetle crawled out of her nostril. 

When she spoke, particles like coffee-grounds drifted out of her lips, old blood that had curdled in the stomach, most likely gained from internal injuries. Small crawdad were moving in pairs along the silt, circling one another as if in a dance. On the other side of the world he could feel Hannibal and Abigail moving in the kitchen together, dancing out of one another’s way while they cooked pieces of their victims in copper bottomed pans. The world tilted in revolutions and he felt the currants of the ocean wanting to pull him out to deeper, colder, saltier waters.

“I don’t want you to keep me company,” Will told her. “You’re a horrible person.”

“You don’t like me because I’ve upset Abigail.”

“Animal abuse is high treason in her world.” His leg muscles were stretching painfully, the muscles in a charley horse and he couldn’t remember the last time he ate. “And Abigail is my world. He thought of her hurting because of you is offensive.”

“I apologise for offending you, then.” She was quiet for a moment and Will couldn’t remember if the killer of those women in the bayou had ever been caught. “I once skinned a—“

Will quickly covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, screaming loudly to block out any of the words she was saying. But he could feel the words in the water, the vibrations forming the words ‘squirrel’, ‘I cut off its feet so it couldn’t run’, ‘I laughed’.

He could hear pounding on the bottom of the boats passing below him, telling him to shut up, but he screamed until he was hoarse, and the Vice President just tipped her head back and laughed as water moccasins swam out of her mouth. 

*****

Hannibal had a meeting with Governor Andrew Cumuo of New York to discuss the recovery efforts being made after Hurricane Sandy. Before meeting, he had instructed Miss Mapp to keep attention on the Tattle-Politics page in the event it updated; as he suspected from his cousin’s uncharacteristically concerned demeanour, Freddie Lounds wouldn’t go missing unless something larger was at work and that would mean she’d update her site with ‘breaking news’. 

Something had most certainly happened to the reporter, not that he could claim surprise—Miss Lounds had been walking out on frozen lakes for sometime and statistically speaking it was only a matter of time before she ended up stepping out on thin ice that wouldn’t support her weight. Now was simply a waiting game to see if she be rescued in time or slip beneath the surface for good. Unofficially, Bedelia had the Secret Service investigating the woman’s disappearance and Hannibal himself suspected that she was a victim of the REDDRAGON militia, but there was always the possibility that someone she’d written something about in the past had finally caught up with her. Either way, Hannibal hoped it was a bloody mess so that he had something interesting to look at when he received the case file on her death.

The meeting was fairly uneventful and he offered his opinions and advise to the governor and his advisors, not caring one way or another if they did what he told them to do; this was the kind of work that he normally preferred to have Bedelia oversee, but after the disaster of Hurricane Sandy, presidents were now seen as a necessary part of the recovery. He was simply thankful that Governor Christie had cancelled at the last minute—Hannibal appreciated the other man’s façade of bipartisanship, but the way he attempted to manipulate Hannibal wasn’t nearly as subtle as he thought it was. They were nearly an hour and forty minutes in when he heard Miss Mapp shift behind him, leaning towards him. 

“Tattle-Politics just updated,” she whispered softly into his ear. 

He nodded and when the Governor took a pause between his sentences, Hannibal interjected politely, “We shall take a twenty minute break. Please help yourself to the kitchen’s refreshments.”

He stood and everyone did as well, one of the nicest powers he had as a president; the men and women shuffled out the door and he gave polite nods to them until the Cabinet Room was empty save for himself, his agents, and his assistant, who was holding out his iPad. While he would have preferred that she not interrupt while the governor was talking, he found the conference tiresome and his curiosity about Miss Lounds’ wellbeing was nagging at him in the way a cliffhanger at the end of a chapter might.

The latest article had a bold title: REDDRAGON MANIFESTO and contained nothing written, no photos, simply an audio file, which was quite curious. Miss Mapp had already plugged his headphones in and was sitting off to the side, looking at him with concern. While she hadn’t listened to it yet, she was smart enough to understand something was afoot. 

Hannibal slipped his headphones on and pressed play.

*****

Abigail lie on her back, one arm behind her head as she stared at the ceiling, listening to Freddie’s voice. Lightening lit up the sky outside beyond the curtains of her windows and she glanced over to check the swollen charcoal clouds. The sky had been boiling all evening, violent enough that the White House groundskeepers had lashed down the outside awning so the heavy canvas wouldn’t pose a security risk later.

She’d listened to the manifesto a total of one hundred and eight times now; it existed with favourite parts and she’d memorised it, burned it into her heart so that anytime she was lonely, she could open the words like a music box and be soothed with the reminder that the other woman had suffered.

Freddie Lounds sounded tired and frightened.

“I have had a great privilege. I have seen…I have seen with wonder…wonder and awe…awe…the strength of the Great Red Dragon.” Freddie made a swallowing noise, something messy and wet sounding because she was crying and her nose was slightly congested as such. “I lied about Him. All I wrote was lies from Abigail Lecter. She made me write them.” Hearing her name the first time had been a surprise, something that Abigail thought was flattering, and the reason everyone had thought she was crying in her room right now. “I have…” A small, out-of-breath sob. “I have blasphemed against the Dragon. Even so…the Dragon is merciful. Now I want to serve Him. He…has helped me understand…His splendor and I will praise Him. Newspapers, when you print this, always capitalise the H in ‘Him’.” The last line made Abigail smile because despite the fear, Freddie delivered it just like a reporter. “He knows you made me lie, Abigail Lecter.” Abigail felt nothing. “Because I was forced to lie, He will be more…more merciful to me than to your Will Graham.” At first, that had scared her, but the longer she listened to it, the more she processed it, the easier it was for her to see that it wasn’t a threat of death, but pain. And Will, who had managed to thrive in pain his whole life, could deal with it a little longer until they found him. Freddie continued. “There’s much…for the American people to dread. From…from my own lips you’ll learn a little more to dread.” A sob and the sound of the audio file coming to an end.

Abigail put her iPod on pause before the recording could start up again and removed the headphones from her ears; sitting up and stretching, she went over to her desk and pulled out a heavy sheet of mauve stationary. On it, she wrote, _‘I have had a great privilege, I have seen with wonder and awe the strength of the Great Red Dragon’_. She folded it into a neat square, making sure each crease in the paper was crisp and exact; now with the little folded square, she left her room—trailed by an evening agent—until she reached the altar room behind her father’s bedroom. 

“Do you have a lighter?” she asked the agent and he produced one for her.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly then returned to her task. 

At the altar, she lit the edge of the folded paper square and tossed it into the incense burner. There was no power in his words and she sneered in disgust as she watched it burn. If that was all that this supposed ‘Great Red Dragon’ had to offer, she wasn’t afraid of him at all. She was one half of the Chesapeake Ripper, she was one half of the remaining Lecters, she was the final embodiment of Mischa, she was the biological remains of the Maryland Shrike, she was the one who stood with the moon under her feet and the stars haloing her head. Fanning the smoke over herself and away from the rest of the altar, sensing the purification of it wafting over her instead.

She imagined eating alive this man who thought he was dragon, showing him that as the consumer, she was the dominant one, his superior, that he would tremble before _her_ and she would stand there as the woman cloaked in the sun, radiant and conquering.

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Trigger warning: mention of animal abuse, slightly descriptive.
> 
> +Trigger warning: graphic description of torture and dismemberment in a character’s dialogue.
> 
> +Trigger warning: a character faces the possibility of being drugged and sexually assaulted. Character is not raped or sexually assaulted.   
> If you want to skip it, I’ve marked it with the symbols “///*****///******///“ at the beginning and the end of the scene that contains it.
> 
>  
> 
> +A ‘charley horse’ is a painful spasiming cramp of the leg, often caused by low potassium/calcium/etc levels.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place on Jan 10, 2014

Freddie felt the wheelchair being lowered to the ground, could smell asphalt and car exhaust. It was freezing cold, something emphasised by the fact she was still in just her skivvies and bra, now a large piece of duct tape covering her eyes. She could hear enough distant sounds of traffic to know she was _somewhere_ , but no voices and she whimpered around the gag jammed in her mouth. She wished she knew what was going on, wished she hadn’t passed out half way through whatever it was that he’d carved into her abdomen. Somehow, gasoline had gotten on her and she’d been forced to smell it the entire trip in the van. 

“I hope you aren’t too cold, Ms Lounds,” the man who’d taken her said quietly in her ear. She gripped the arms of the wheelchair tightly, feeling how severely sloped forward the ground was. “You’re almost there.”

The wheelchair was pushed along and she could hear him still talking as he walked along. “I told you one fib. You might not deliver the message alive.”

Freddie began to hyperventilate, her nostrils burning with the frozen air and gasoline. The sounds of traffic were a bit closer now. 

“Do you like being the Vice President’s pet, _Freeeeddieeee_?” he hissed in her ear.

And then, she felt the wheelchair was pushed and she began to roll forward, gaining speed as she went downhill. The wheels rattled violently on the hard asphalt and she screamed, terrified, not understand what the fuck was happening other than the fact that she was going to possibly die doing it—

There was a loud honking and screeching of tires and she could only grip the wheelchair harder. Was she in TRAFFIC?! More swerving tires and she screamed and screamed against the gag and after what felt like a lifetime later, the wheels collided with something, upending her violently on her side; she could hear her right pinkie and ring finger snap as they were crushed between the hardwood of the chair and whatever she’d fallen on, which was wet and hard. Concrete?

She screamed and sobbed, hysterical in fear as she tried to figure out where she was and what had happened and please, don’t let anything happen to her! There was the sound of footsteps running towards her and she bit down on the gag, screaming into it again—

“Freddie?!”

She let out a shrill scream, recognising the voice instantly. It was her _mother_.

The tape was ripped off her eyes and she blinked, eyes now blurry with tears and the sunlight to see her mother kneeling over her. As the gag was pulled from her mouth, she could see that the wheelchair had crashed into the curb in front of her childhood house, which was at the bottom of a hill that in the morning, experienced many delivery trucks on the cross streets. That asshole had brought her to New York _where her parents lived_.

As her mother tried to help her out of the wheelchair, Freddie tried to explain, “I’m glued on—“

“Oh god!” her mother tugged on her arm and Freddie bit back a scream as her skin started to tear.

“No, don’t! Just call nine-one-one!” she begged. “Just call nine-one-one!”

“Denise! I saw—“ someone else came running over and she realised it was her parent’s neighbor, Mr Conner.“Oh my lord!”

“Help her up! I’m calling the police!” 

She could hear her mother stumbling on the flagstone walkway back to the house and Freddie hoped to god she hadn’t pissed herself in fear as she had rolled down the road. As her parent’s neighbor knelt down next to her, she found enough sense to warn him not to touch her either. “Don’t pull, Mr Conner. I’m glued to the chair.”

The man was furious and scared, pulling off his jacket to drape it over her. “Who did this to you?”

She could hear people getting out of their cars and running towards her.

“The Great Red Dragon. 

*****

“I’ll admit, whatever he could have done to her was far too merciful.” Abigail looked over to her father as they shut the Oval Office door behind them, alone without Secret Service agents. “I’m glad he saved her for me.”

“Your aunt is going to see her. I am expecting quite a story back,” her father said contemplatively as he sat down at his desk.

The briefing that they’d had on Freddie Lounds abduction and subsequent release was absolutely _thrilling_ and while she hoped Will didn’t have to face intersections as part of his release, she also saw that there truly was potential that he could make it out of the situation alive. Abigail found herself smiling because it seemed that for the first time since this ordeal had started, things were looking up. 

*****

Wendy, of Wendy City, stood outside the hospital room, snapping her gum and waiting patiently, two things she was accustomed to. This small corner of the hospital had all but been closed off to anyone who wasn’t law enforcement, doctors and nurses, and herself. It felt very surreal, like she was in a movie.

She gave a tart smile to the cops looking her over. She was a proverbial street whore, a prostitute that worked seedier parts of DC. She was also Freddie Lounds’ emergency contact. 

She always thought that politicians would pay for the expensive escorts, ones that they thought would have some sort of client privilege ethic, but the reality was she and the other girls she walked with had encountered congressmen and others passing through town often enough that she no longer felt any kind of surprise upon seeing a familiar face. These men seemed to think that the average prostitute was too stupid or strung-out to know who they were. 

She’d met Freddie a few years back when Freddie had been staking out a particular politician from Chicago—Wendy’s hometown and namesake “Wendy City”—and as she approached the car across the street where the redhead was taking photos, she leaned in the window and asked casually, “Want to know what he was up to?” And the redhead had given her the most mischievous grin, a little girl who never felt shame for putting her hand in the cookie jar. From there, their work relationship became something a little more personal.

Was Wendy in love with her? Sure, in the way someone as jaded as her was capable of. It was nice to have Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons with her, lying naked on Freddie’s pillow-top mattress as she watched the little redhead scamper around the bedroom-cum-office in her cutoff jeans that showed her ass and her hair wet from the shower and her tits out because she never wore a shirt or bra when she was at home, a candy-cane stuck in her mouth from her everlasting stockpile in the living room’s tv cabinet. Freddie only knew how to work, always reaching for the impossibly high, never satisfied with what she had or what she’d achieved. She was a woman who’d managed to destroy and create careers without a second thought, who simply threw the facts out to the court of public opinion and before it even hit the fan, she was already onto the Next Big Thing. 

And Wendy enjoyed the money spent on her, enjoyed the fact that if she ever needed someone to have her back, Freddie was just a phone call away. Freddie with her pretty clothes and doll-sized feet and hair that was tight red coils. Wendy was loyal to her in the way she knew Freddie was loyal to her, two people who understood that you had to scratch a person’s back from time to time. 

And as Wendy leaned on the wall outside the room, she contemplated where their relationship was going to go from here. There was no doubt that things would be different—no one could get kidnapped and then just return to life like nothing had happened. And she’d only been told a little bit about what had happened to Freddie—it seemed like the doctors either didn’t think she was smart enough to handle it or they doubted she had the stomach, but they’d told Wendy that Freddie’d experienced mild-to-moderate chemical burns on her skin and that she had been put on a mild sedative for abrasions and lacerations. They really hadn’t told her dick about what had happened and she could assume based on the police presence that a person had done this to Freddie, which made sense—Freddie was constantly talking about people who didn’t want to be talked about. It was only a matter of time before that caught up with her. 

Wearing her nicest velour tracksuit, a pink Juicy knockoff, Wendy scratched her fingernails subtly at the space where her hairline and wig met. She’d been waiting for two hours now and thankfully she had a good understanding of what it meant to be patient.

The hallway went dead quiet, as though the hospital now existed in a vacuum and she straightened her back a little, sensing danger. Then a group of suited individuals rounded the corner and between them walked the Vice President of the United States. Wendy relaxed slightly because Freddie had once warned her that Du Maurier would keep tabs on her and Wendy had rolled with it. So long at the Vice President didn’t keep her from working, she didn’t care. What the fuck did hookers care about the US government? 

Du Maurier paused upon reaching her. “You’re Wendy.”

“Yeah,” she replied with a nod, swallowing her gum. 

Du Maurier raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to go in and see her?”

“Yeah. Probably should have done something with my hair.” She glanced at her reflection in glass barrier looking into the room. The curtains had been drawn over the glass, which meant she still hadn’t seen Freddie.

Du Maurier nodded her head to the police guarding the door and they stood aside. “She won’t care.”

Wendy went ahead and the Vice President waited by the doorway; the curtains had been pulled around Freddie’s bed to give additional privacy and Wendy was worried of what she might see; no one had exactly told her what had happened to the redhead, which left nothing but speculation. Wendy had seen what happened to other girls on the streets when they’d been with a rough john or their pimp had been angry with them, and she could only guess what the angry member of a terrorist organisation would do to someone they were pissed at.

Sure enough, Freddie looked like shit: her hair had been shaven on the back of her head and the skin on the underside of her arms was a tender pink as were the palms of her hands. There were dark circles under her eyes and a bruises on various parts of her skin, where hands had gripped onto her too hard. But she was alive and seemed whole, which made Wendy relax a bit. 

She took a seat beside the bed and grasped Freddie’s hand without hesitation. “Hey, Roscoe.”

A fake name Freddie had given her originally and was now a name of affection; Freddie gave her a quirk of her lips, a shadow of her usual smile. “Hey.”

“You okay?” Wendy rubbed the back of her wrist tenderly.

“I’ve been better.”

“The Vice President is here for you,” Wendy told her and with that cue, the Vice President walked from behind the screen and around the side of the bed to join Wendy.

“Hey, Vice President Du Maurier,” Freddie greeted in her usual swagger.

Du Maurier raised an eyebrow and offered a prissy little smile. “I’m relieved you were handed back in one piece. Shame about your hair.” 

Freddie’s smile faltered a bit, though she resisted reaching up to touch the mangled locks. Wendy had always adored her curls and she was avoiding giving them too close a look—they were so mangled and filthy. She didn’t want to know what happened to them.

“Yeah, well…c’est la vie,” Freddie replied. 

“Who did this to you?” the Vice President asked.

Freddie’s voice was firm. “The Great Red Dragon.”

Wendy knew all about them from the hours she’d spent at Freddie’s apartment, watching her work. “REDDRAGON?”

“No, their leader. The Great Red Dragon.” Freddie glanced over at the other woman. “Bedelia, this guy isn’t fucking around. And your niece gave me a bunch of false info which is what pissed him off in the first place. You know how I feel about sources who lie to me.”

“Yes, well. We’ll settle that later. What I need right now—“

Freddie glared at the Vice President, her hold tightening around Wendy’s hand. “Are you listening to me? That guy almost killed me because of your family!”

The Vice President’s lips twitched slightly in what Wendy was perceiving as thinly controlled rage. “Freddie, I want to find this man and crush him under my heel. He is getting in the way of my things and you know how I feel about people who do that.” Then the politician’s look changed and she raised one of her eyebrows slightly. “You’ll have your retribution. I wouldn’t deny you that.”

Wendy knew Freddie was strictly Gold Star and one of her biggest fears was that one day she’d be put in a position where she couldn’t protect herself from a man. Disregarding the second most powerful person in the country, she turned back to Freddie and murmured, 

“Did that asshole hurt you?”

Freddie smiled, another sad shadow. “Not like that. Kept his hands to himself.”

Wendy hadn’t realised her eyes were watering, but she gave a relieved and tired laugh, wiping at them with the back of her wrist. “Good.”

Freddie’s lips twisted in that way that always suggested they were conspiring and they maintained eye contact for a moment before the redhead looked back at the Vice President.  

“When is the Secret Service guy coming here to take my statement?”

“In about twenty minutes. I had to have him delayed to buy time.” The Vice President looked about the room. “There will be PD here later as well, after him, but I want to keep them out of the way, if you’d be so kind.”

“The Secret Service guy…” Freddie raised an eyebrow.

“He’s one of mine. A Mr Saul Perlman. He’s conducting the investigation.” Du Maurier glanced back at Freddie. “Don’t lie to him. Even by omission.” 

“Got it, boss.”

“And your discretion would be appreciated. I won’t stand in the way of your business, but I won’t allow you to walk all over mine.”

“Fair enough.”

The Vice President turned looked back at Wendy. “Stay until the Secret Service arrives, Wendy.”

Wendy wanted to say something smartass in reply, but just turned her attention back to Freddie; only people who paid for it got her time and there was nothing that the Vice President had that she wanted. Once they were alone in the room one more, Freddie gave her that stupid, mischievous grin and she leaned in close.

“Didn’t tell her that the Dragon said I’d get to be his messenger.”

“That’s dangerous.” Wendy meant about terrorists more than the VP, though she suspected Du Maurier could cause a problem for Freddie if she wanted to.

“I know, but this will be the biggest story I’ll ever have. I survived.” She touched her fingertips to Wendy’s cheek. “Go back to the apartment, grab my gear, and get it up to my dad’s office. When I check out of here, I’ll be going back to my parents…” She frowned slightly as she considered she might be asking a bit much of the other woman. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll just stay at your place, if that’s all right.” 

“Should be safe. They’re going to have a cop parked out front.”

“‘Kay.” Wendy patted Freddie’s cheek jokingly. “Stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Never do.” Then Freddie’s humour became adoration. “I’m so glad you came.”

Wendy smiled and kissed Freddie’s lips once more before leaving the hospital room. Yes, if one could say anything about the two of them, it would be that both of them were survivors, no thanks to anyone but themselves. Wendy took a train back to DC; back at Freddie’s apartment, Wendy tied her wig back into a ponytail and began to pick out the things she knew the redhead used the most—the laptop, the hard drives buried in the house plants, the bright red lipstick that she wore everyday. It was all tossed into one of the padded camera bags stashed in the hallway closet and taking a handful of cash out of the back of Freddie’s file cabinet, she caught a cab that would take her up to Manhattan.

When she reached the Gotham Tribune offices, she marched in, not going to take shit from anyone. And marching up to the receptionist’s desk, she leaned slightly on the high counter and gave the body language of someone who wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. 

“Hi, I need to see Freddy Lounds.” 

The receptionist didn’t seem to like the looks of her and raised an eyebrow. Her accent was Bostonian. “Is he expecting you?”

“No.”

The woman frowned and just barely caught herself from rolling her eyes. “Just a minute.”

Wendy waited patiently as the receptionist picked up the phone on her desk and dialed the extension to the elder Lounds’ office. “Mr Lounds, there’s someone here to see you.” The receptionist spun her chair around so she didn’t have to face Wendy and muttered into the phone, “I don’t know, some blonde with big boobs.” An annoyed sigh and the receptionist returned to her original position. “Okay.”

Great—looked like both Lounds seemed to have the same type. As the receptionist hung up the phone, she pointed to the glass door to the left. 

“Through there.” 

Wendy entered the office as if she owned the place, not giving anyone eye contact and kept her head held high. She’d seen photos of Freddie’s dad in her apartment, so she knew exactly who to walk to in the busy office space; he’d locked onto her as the ‘blonde with big boobs’, eyes quickly looking her over as he smiled at her. Probably thought she was some hooker with a big story to sell, someone he’d be polite to until he saw she really didn’t have much of a scandal to offer. He wore a Member’s Only jacket, same colour as the mushrooms Freddie ate instead of steak. 

“Hello, can I help you?” he asked, sounding friendly enough. 

She handed over the bag she’d had slung over her shoulder. “These are your kid’s. She wanted me to bring them over.”

At this his features softened and he nodded. “I see. One of her friends?”

Wendy shrugged. “One of the honoured few.”

Wendy doubted that Freddie had ever mentioned her to her parents, not that she was offended—she wasn’t really the type that people would talk about to loved ones. Without anything left to say, she turned around and walked out.

“Hey—“ he called out.

Wendy turned around.

“Do you think she’s up for an interview?”

Only a Lounds would ask that.

“You should probably ask her.”

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +”gold star” is a slang term for a lesbian who’s never been penetrated by a male penis.
> 
> +The mushrooms Wendy is talking about are portabello mushrooms, which are a decent vegetarian substitute to steak.


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between Jan 11-20, 2014

_Beneficiary: Abigail Eunice Fitzgerald Lecter_

_Sum of: $25,000_

Abigail put the piece of paper back in the desk drawer she’d found it in. While cleaning at Will’s in the evening, she’d come across the life insurance paperwork Will had drafted up at the beginning of November, signed a day after she’d turned eighteen. Even when he’d been mad, he’d tried to give her everything he had. 

It…it was…

 _Unacceptable_.

She wiped at her eyes. If he died, she’d be given that amount of money he’d set aside and she hated it. She’d have the stupid cheque cashed into hundreds, then she’d burn them all just to spite Will’s memory, that he’d died and his life had only been worth that much. It was an immature and dramatic thought, but she was angry. If Will was killed, the world owed her much, _much_ more than twenty-five thousand dollars. What would she even do with that money? How could money compare to a life?

She shut the desk drawer and sat down on the edge of Will’s bed, willing herself not to cry any further. After a minute, she was able to collect herself and think rationally. What was she giving him in case something happened to her? Could she give him anything? She’d need to think about it. 

Abigail knew that Georgia was no doubt sleeping and left her a quick text message for her to find in the morning. _< <Would like to talk to family lawyer asap. Thank you>>_

She didn’t exactly know what she planned on doing, but she was sure that by morning she would have found some sort of answer.

Downstairs, she retrieved the cd player and scanned through his collection of music for something to listen to. There was a Beatles anthology and while she was tempted to listen to it, she knew it was an expressly forbidden band to listen to. For whatever reason, her father’s face would become hard and his eyes like a storm when they were played; she didn’t dare disrespect him and passed over the album to look at the next one, which was Joni Mitchell. Judging from the amount of scuffs on the cover as well as the slight crack in the plastic, she could see that this cd was played often, so she pulled it out and brought it back up stairs with her.

The woman’s voice softly reminded her that she might not really know love at all and she felt her chin wobbling as she bit her lower lip, fighting the tears. Was this how Will had always felt? That he didn’t know what love felt like, or life? Her poor Will—was he to die not truly understanding that he meant the world to she and her father? She might not have his type of empathy, but the melancholy in the song made her understand that Will would never truly feel at home in their arms unless they proved themselves to him. And that was going to be impossible if he was dead. 

She screamed into his bed’s pillow and beat her fists against it, the pent up rage mingling with the down and fiberfill. While she wasn’t one to buy into the ‘life’s not fair’ self-victimisation her father loathed, _life wasn’t fair_. Lying her face against the now damp pillow, she closed her eyes and began to relax her breathing.

She dreamt that she and her father found Will locked in a cupboard in the Capitol building, cold and sick, and she bundled him up in her arms, softly whispering maternal sounds to him as her father ushered them back to the White House. There were cobwebs on him and his words were a mixture of prayerful Lithuanian and frightened English and as her father spoon fed him something that was made up of all the screams of anyone they’d ever eaten and all of his teeth were crumbling away—

She awoke with the desperate and illogical desire to go back to Washington DC and storm into the capitol building to mount a rescue mission. The clock on Will’s nightstand said it was a quarter past three and she sat up; the music was still playing softly in the background and the room was considerably cooler. Turning the music off, she left the bedroom to go back downstairs. She descended the staircase slowly, finding the light too bright on her eyes and her body wishing she’d just remained in the bed.

“Awake?” her senior evening agent asked, standing from the couch and setting aside a fishing magazine.

“Enough. I need to go home.” She sat down on the staircase, exhausted.

“Lettin’ ‘em know we’re on our way,” he said before speaking into his wrist piece. “You okay?”

“I think I was having a nightmare,” she admitted, rubbing at her eyes.

“Don’t remember what you were dreaming about?”

“I remember. It just didn’t come true and I don’t know where that leaves me.”

It seemed obvious to him with the dream was about. “Ah. Don’t worry. We’ll get your other dad back.”

“I’m his only family and I don’t want to inherit this stupid dirt farm because of some assholes who don’t like the Affordable Healthcare Act,” she said in frustration.

But her senior agent continued nodding reassuringly. “We’re all workin’ hard to get him back, including your daddy. No one’s resting until he’s home. The fact they haven’t killed him yet is a great sign,” he pointed out. “Means they know he’s valuable.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. People aren’t held this long unless they’re going to be used for bargaining.”

“So there’s hope.”

“Oh, definitely.”

She was quiet for a moment before stating. “You know, you shouldn’t make promises in hostage situations.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“But thank you.”

*****

Having her new puppy in the office was a welcome distraction to everyone and Abigail was beginning to see that having to be responsible for another thing’s life might be enough to keep her mind off what was happening to Will, that there wasn’t anything she could do to fix it. The puppy looked like some sort of heeler/shepherd mix and had been quite happy to follow staffers around, sniffing at shoes and receiving attention. 

There was a small bed beside her desk where Laumė (but mostly referred to her by that ridiculous nickname) rested and as Abigail finished reviewing the designs and plans for the Front Lawn Easter Egg Roll, Applesauce carried one of her small chewtoy over to her. Abigail tugged at it for few minutes and once the puppy was sufficiently worn out, the puppy lied down on her bed; Abigail massaged her hands all over the puppy’s body, fighting a smile as the tired animal wasn’t able to keep her eyes open, giving a large yawn.

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone,” she teased, petting the puppy’s head before getting off the floor.

“Applesauce is so cute, Abigail,” Georgia told her, smiling down at the puppy as she handed over 

“She really is.” She looked up to Abel, whose desk was still set off solitary by the windows. “Thank you once again, Uncle Abel.” 

He smiled, nothing bright or bold, but something that was for her alone. “My pleasure.”

*****

As the head of the Household, Abigail had the power to assemble all non-staffers employed by the White House and a few days before her father’s birthday, she had nearly anyone she felt important brought into the West Wing’s Cabinet Room. Every usher, all chefs and bakers, part of the house keeping staff, as well as every senior secretary and assistant that worked in the White House was in attendance. She’d been putting off the plans for her father’s birthday for over a month now and while she didn’t have any remorse for that, it was obvious that it was throwing out the ‘natural order of things’, as her aunt would put it.

She stood at the head of the room and while she might otherwise be intimidated to address them, she had reached a point where she was just dying to have someone challenge her. 

“There will be no birthday celebrations, per my father’s request. I would like for the word to spread along,” she said in a calm and firm voice that mirrored her father’s. She was leaving no room for argument. “Any birthday gifts—cards, flowers, objects—are to be held and then released to his office the next day. He has decided that it would be inappropriate to have any form of festivities for his birthday while Will Graham is being held hostage. Anyone who works in an office, please relay this information to your superiours and your subordinates. I appreciate everyone’s cooperation in the matter. Thank you.”

First she’d cancelled the Residence’s Christmas and now the President’s birthday. Abigail could feel herself losing favour amongst the staff who’d become accustomed to creating the White House into an image of picture perfect celebration. Perhaps if there wasn’t the hideous belief that she was sleeping with Will, it might have garnered sympathy, but now she just appeared to be the bitch who was ruining traditions beloved within the White House. She wondered how many of them would create a mutiny should she inform them that Easter would be cancelled as well. 

Everyone now excused, Abigail left the West Wing. Georgia offered her encouragement, trying to remind her that the decoration department couldn’t possibly be mad at her—that they understood not everyone liked celebrating their birthdays anyway; Abigail just nodded, fighting back any snide annoyance she wished to voice. When she returned to her office, Mrs Madchen informed her that her family lawyer was waiting for her in the conference room and Abigail thanked her, informing Georgia that she wasn’t to be interupted.

Uncle Abel gave her a small smile and wave as he spoke with someone on the phone, most likely getting more research for the speech he’d decided to write for her regarding the DC voters, a subject she’d all but forgotten about at this point; Applesauce was sleeping soundly in her bed and feeling everything was in order, Abigail went into the conference room.

“Hello, Mr Gunderson. How are you?” she greeted as he stood.

She shut the door behind her and shook his hand.

“I’m well. And you?”

“I’m well,” she echoed, even if they both knew she wasn’t being truthful. Sitting down at the table across from him, she added, “I’m sorry to have called you on such short notice, but I have a very busy schedule and wasn’t sure when else I’d be able to see you.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said with a charming smile. “I’m always happy to see the Lecters. What can I do for you today?”

“I’d like to review my life insurance policy. Since my father has been put in office, I think it should be increased.” 

He nodded and opened his attaché, removing a variety of documents; Gunderson had anticipated her needs and opened a file, turning it around on the table and sliding it over to her. 

“Your policy is for half a million.”

She nodded. “Yes, I’ll take a million dollar policy.” 

“Okay, here’s what the monthly cost would be.” He leaned across the table and circled the number on the paper.

“That’s fine,” she said, hardly glancing at it. “I’d also like to list Mr Will Graham to be a beneficiary of my insurance policy. Half to my father, half to him.”

“Your father is the one who took out the policy on you, so it would require his signature.” 

“That’s fine. Please contact him.” 

He wrote on his agenda and then asked, “Anything else you’d like done? A change in your will to accommodate for Mr Graham?”

“Yes. I’d like for Will to receive my books. My bank account. Um, Winston and Applesauce.” She couldn’t think of anything else that he might possibly like. The fishing lures they’d worked on together? “The fly tying kit.”

“Winston and Applesauce are your dogs?” he asked, writing quickly. 

“Yes.” She stared at the painting on the wall behind him; it was of pink geraniums, as created by Lady Bird Johnson. “I’m unable to think of anything else.”

“I’ll draft up something and bring it by tomorrow?” he asked, looking up at her over the top of his glasses.

She nodded. “That would be fine.”

“Anything else?”

“That should be it. Thank you.”

He nodded and quickly packed up his attaché. “I uh, wanted to say I’m sorry that Mr Graham has been taken hostage. He’s been in our prayers.”

She nodded again. “Thank you.” 

He stood offered out his hand again. “Have a good day, First Lady,”

“You, too.” 

She remained sitting in the conference room as he exited and she considered what Will would do with half a million dollars if she died. Maybe she should have included the small lock of Marissa’s hair in the will—he’d protect it, honour her. There was a knock on the conference door and with a heavy sigh, she stood. 

*****

Will sat with Abigail in what was possibly the Hanging Gardens of Babylon—Abigail was the living equivalent of that Seventh Wonder of the World. Air blew softly across his skin and through her hair and something seemed very off.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking at the many planters, all empty.

She smiled, something pure and warm. “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” 

“There’s nothing here,” he said, seeing beeswax candles lit in the corners of the outdoor portico they were sitting on. 

“Because you left,” she told him and he shook his head.

“No. Don’t pin this on me.”

“I miss you.” 

“Abigail—“

“I told you if you could see inside my mind, you’d understand it,” she told him.

This place was a wasteland, something that should have been beautiful, but lacked any features that would make it so.

“You are a surrogate. For my own lack of family,” he told her. “For Hannibal’s. You are the filler for the empty spaces inside of us.” She was composed of the lightness of feathers and the silence of space. “You’re nothing more than insulation to the cold.”

“I know.” She didn’t sound sorry, but she did sound sad. “And I want to be more. Do you think if I wish hard enough, I’ll become a real girl?”

Her body looked human, but now he saw her joints were artificial and she truly was a puppet of her father.  

“I don’t know. What’s inside of you are embers buried beneath ash; they’re still warm and could burn again, but after too long…” He watched as the candles around them snuffed out. “They’re just cold pieces of carbon.”

“Diamonds are cold pieces of carbon.”

“Yes, they are. Polished, precise, and only good for cutting. Things that people die over.”

Her expression softened. “People should die for me. I’m worth it.”

“Your father killed someone for me and it felt terrible,” Will told her and that was true. 

“I want someone who would be willing to kill for me. They’d see that extinguishing candles is a job someone has to do.” His eyes watched the smallest movement of her scar from the muscles underneath as she spoke. “I’d be their crown jewel.”

“I think those are your father’s words,” he told her. 

Wind blew harshly though the Hanging Gardens and the pots chimed loudly.

“In-a-gadda-da-vida, honey…don’t you know that I love you? In-a-gadda-da-vida, baby…don’t you know that I’ll always be true?” She sang softly, standing up and swaying in spot to the song that only she could hear. “Oh, won’t you come with me and take my hand? Oh, won’t you come with me and walk this land? Please, take my hand.” She offered her hand out to him and he saw that both of their palms were bleeding. She paused and looked up to the side, and then glanced back at him, whispering, “There’s someone here.”

His eyes were already open, so when he blinked and flinched, trying to orient himself, he couldn’t understand how what he’d just experienced and what he was now seeing—oh god. Had he been hallucinating again?

He was at the bottom of The Box and the door had been opened, a masked figure standing menacingly. “Up.” 

*****

Bedelia had purchased a few blunts off one of her aides a while back and was currently smoking the third one as she watched the late night news; she’d only bought the marijuana in the first place because their cousin Patrick was campaigning against it. She’d dabbed in pot at the end of high school but had been fairly indifferent to it, as she was now. A small rebellion in her life. 

She wondered if Kade was a smoker, but doubted it. The dress she’d purchased for her was still hanging in Bedelia’s closet beside the gown she’d worn to their inauguration. A small buzz in her lap indicated that the conversation via text messaging had arrived. 

She smiled, looking down at the scren. << _I know he’s your cousin, but I have no idea how you can tolerate him._ >>

She replied, << _Consider it professional curiousity_ >>

_< <I thought that’s what was between us>>_

Bedelia flicked what was left in the marijuana into the fireplace, despite it being decorative not functional. She was aware that Kade had attempted to make a joke, not understanding the depth of what Bedelia had meant.

She chose not to reply.

*****

Will stood beside a very nice travel trailer—an old 1970 Holiday Rambler, all polished and shining beneath the magnolia trees. Will traced his hand along the metal siding as he walked alongside it; he’d wanted this travel trailer as a child, when he was young and thought that his dad could afford decent things on an alcoholic’s budget. He’d imagined how they could attach it to the back of their truck and during the day, park it in various back country lanes. White and teal, such a nice combination for a paint job. 

Will opened the door and stepped up into the trailer, noting that the inside was dark for the time of the afternoon and position of the sun overhead. But it made sense when he saw the curtains inside were drawn and there was the smell of tinned hash that had been fried in a pan, a smell of childhood that made his mouth water.

His dad was sitting at the small fold down dining table, a small overhead lamp lit as he circled jobs in the classified section of the newspaper with a red magic marker. He looked up at Will and Will felt frozen in place. 

“Willy, I want you to go to school and find a nice woman you can settle down with.”

“But I’m going to school to teach.” He felt his laminated GWU badge in his left hand, palm sweaty around it. 

“Don’t be a faggot, Willy. You know I won’t allow that in my household. You’ll get a job and a wife, like a real man.”

“You don’t have _either_ ,” Will countered, feeling his anxiety start to rise. 

Out of the shadows stepped Hannibal. “Your son doesn’t need a wife. He has everything he needs in me.” Hannibal pushed over the DNC’s file on him, the one submitted for consideration to having him as the 2012 presidential candidate.“As you can see, I am entirely qualified to be your son’s partner. I am also the President of the United States and when William is found guilty of the crime of cannibalism, I’ll have him exonerated just like that!” Hannibal emphasised the final word with a snap of his fingers.

“Just like that!” Abigail said cheerfully with a snap of her fingers, sitting on the opposite side of the table.

“Where did you come from?” Will asked, alarmed. He _never_ wanted her to meet his dad. 

“Once was lost, but now am found—was blind, but now I see!” she sang clearly.  

“You’ve kept your figure for having a child,” his dad commented to Hannibal 

“She keeps me on my toes,” Hannibal said with a terrible smile. 

Was that right? Hannibal had created Abigail, yes, so Will supposed it made sense. 

“I can row a boat and tie flies. Maybe I could work during the summer on the docks with you,” Abigail suggested, wanting to be a useful part of the family. 

“No, you won’t,” Will said in the same angry, desperate tone his own dad used. “You’ll spend your summers studying so you can make something of yourself.”

“He’s right, Abigail. We’d just be white trash like Will,” Hannibal explained. 

Will wanted to get away from the table and escape the motorhome, but he seemed riveted to the floor and couldn’t lift his feet.

“Down on the bayou,” Abigail sang mockingly. She pointed her hands at him as though holding a rifle while she looked through a scope and sang, “Better run through the jungle. Better run through the jungle, don’t look back to see.”

“Thought it was a nightmare—lord, it was so true. They told me don’t go walking slow, the devil’s on the loose,” his dad sang in response, turning his attention back to the classifieds. 

Will could hear bullets ringing past him and he startled, his feet suddenly able to move. Hannibal had a spotlight on him and behind him, in the direction the travel trailer’s bedroom were large rainforest plants. 

“I, President Hannibal Lecter the Eighth, wrote this song not about the Vietnam war, but about America and the proliferation of guns, registered and otherwise. I’m a hunter and I’m not antigun, but I just thought that people were so gun happy—and there were so many guns uncontrolled that it really was dangerous, and it’s even worse now. It’s interesting that it has taken 20-odd years to get a movement on that position.” Will frowned, pausing as he considered that the words didn’t sound like Hannibal’s own; but he couldn’t contemplate what the man meant as Hannibal then turned to look at Will and his eyes flickered with fire as he whispered, “Better run through the jungle.”

Will spun around only to see that lurking amongst the trees was Hannibal holding a hunting rifle and wearing a very formal suit of tweed.

“Oh, fuck—“ he gasped, slipping on the wet, decaying leaves.

He sprinted through the trees, unsure if the heavy breathing he heard was himself or the hunter, and he didn’t dare turn around to find out. It felt as though he’d been running for hours when he finally reached a clearing that was covered with bodies, two and three deep. He wasn’t sure what to make of the scene; it was gruesome and flies buzzed around as he stepped around the fallen to reach the closest structure, an open-air seating area.

Bedelia Du Maurier sat on a chair with a red solo cup of koolaid held aloft in greeting and triumph; Alana’s head was resting in her lap, her eyes closed a languid smile on her lips.

“Four more years,” Du Maurier informed him and he saw the celebratory confetti in red and blue scattered everywhere.

“They trusted you.” How selfish did a person have to be to put a man who genuinely lacked morals into the most influential position the country had to offer.

“And now we have four more years. Have the ushers put out balloons.”

“You killed them all of a few votes!” Will yelled, pointing the decaying bodies. 

“Poison in their ears, dripped slowly. You should have suspected something—you were sleeping with him, after all.” Her smile frozen into something fearful and she looked past him. “He’s coming. He’s dangerous—I always believed you.”

Will pushed past them, sprinting for the opposite side of the clearing. He crashed out of the jungle to find himself on a marble floor, Hannibal standing in the centre with his hand was outstretched and while he looked calm, Will could see the irritation in his eyes. 

“You’re late. I am expected to dance with you.”

Will stood, still postured to flee, realising they were surrounded by the well-dressed social elite of Washington and this was the inaugural ball. Expectant eyes watched intently, judging his every move. And Hannibal took the first step, pulling Will into his arms.

“Forgive me—I know you can’t dance, so I shall take the lead,” Hannibal told him as static filled the vacuum and their feet began to move.

“They’ll know. They can’t know. You can’t get reelected if they know,” Will hissed. 

“Don’t worry, Will. They can’t stop me from having what I want.”

“Do you really think it’s that easy? The same people who cheer for your nomination will be the same ones who cheer for your beheading.”

“Hush, Will. You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re just showing off—“

Hannibal pulled him into a deep, passion-filled kiss. Will couldn’t protest as it felt wonderful and any contact with the other man always seemed to reduce him to something needful. But when Hannibal pulled his mouth away, Will saw it was covered in blood and realised his tongue had been chewed away. 

“Now look what you’ve made me do,” Hannibal chastised gently. “I told you to stop protesting.”

Will tried to pull away from Hannibal’s hold, but the grip on his wrist and waist were tight and he was only able to struggle. People in the crowd were gasping and giving him disgusted and horrified looks at the way he’d just been manhandling the President and not at the fact Hannibal had just eaten away his tongue. His mouth hurt, as though he’d been hit in the face, and it tasted strongly of blood. 

Hannibal and the other socialites faded away and Will came to awareness in the shower of the bathroom, sitting in the floor and his hands cuffed to the safety rail. There was still a strong taste in his mouth of blood and he spit out frothy pink and red saliva. There were two masked men, one holding a garden hose that had been crimped to stop the water. Had they been cleaning him off?

“What happened to my mouth?” he asked looking around and wondering if he’d slipped. 

“Shut up.”

He probed with his tongue and winced as he found his right lower incisor was gone, and the front tooth next to it was jagged and sensitive, causing him to flinch in pain.

“Where are my teeth?” he asked frantically. “Is my tooth broken?”

There was suddenly a man marching over to him and Will wasn’t sure if he was shaking or there was an earthquake. He spotted a bloody white speck on the floor by him—the missing tooth. 

“Hold still.”

He pinned Will’s shoulder down and it was then that Will realised that he had a pair of pliers in his hand. Will started to yell in protest, which only made the man’s job easier and the pliers were gripped around the broken tooth. A quick yank left Will screaming and as the bloody broken tooth came into view, he blacked out into a mercifully dreamless state.

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida is a song  
> the title/lyrics are a mondegreen of the sentence “In the Garden of Eden”
> 
> +An attaché case is a thin briefcase, often used for the carrying of documents
> 
> +Lady Bird Johnson was the wife of President Lyndon B Johnson. She was well educated and used her modest inheritance to bankroll her husband’s congressional campaign. As First Lady, she started a capital beautification project, summarised in the statement “where flowers bloom, so does hope”. She also created the modern structure now present in the First Lady’s office. “Lady Bird” was her nickname, which is “ladybug”.
> 
> +The monologue Hannibal gives about the song ‘Run Through The Jungle’ is a quote from John Fogerty, who wrote the song.


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place from Jan 21-27, 2014

Hannibal watched the sun rise over Washington DC, a slow dawn filled with the colour of champagne and dove grey. Clouds full with rain water floated above the city, waiting to burst. Today he turned forty-nine and it felt as though he’d approached some hideous milestone that emphasised Will’s absence. 

He thought back to exactly one year previous, when he and Abigail had been filled with mirth and excitement, eager to see this new world spread out before them. And now he had found that for as brightly as it had shown, the shadows were much deeper and darker than he’d anticipated. That wasn’t to say he couldn’t conquer all of them as well, it was simply more than he’d expected. He didn’t exactly think it fair that he’d already had Will compromised so early in the game, not that he was someone who dwelt on whether or not the universe operated under conditions of ‘fair’ and ‘unfair’. 

Soon, Abigail would enter his room with presents, the same tradition of small things she’d found in hopes of making him smile, of laying claim to his happiness. Soon the news would want to talk about his first full year in office and he’d have to stand before the press corp to answers questions about his perceived successes and failures. 

Releasing the curtains from his hold, he walked back across his darkened bedroom and waited for the phone call that was to wake him.

*****

“Today,” Jimmy started as he addressed the Secret Service office in the basement, “would be a really great day to get Will back. So remember, if anyone has anything, get on it.”

Perlman nodded and took over the orders for the morning as Jimmy stood to the side. The thought of being able to give the President the ultimate birthday present—the triumphant return of Will Graham—would be priceless. He could already imagine how it would feel to burst through the door to the Oval Office breathlessly declaring that Will was safe.

The Secret Service traditionally commissioned a nice watch to give to the President for his first birthday in office, but considering all of the President’s watches were nicer than anything the Uniformed Division could afford, they’d been forced to take a different route. Technically, it wasn’t Lecter’s first birthday in office, either—last year after his inauguration they’d presented him with gold plated cufflinks that bore the Presidential Seal on them, something tasteful and unique. And it had seemed to be successful, given that Lecter had worn them to various events. Finally, Barney Matthews had recommended a copy of Dante’s Inferno, one illustrated by Gustave Dore; a few agents had contacts in the book world and a copy was procured for a tidy $850, which was only a little more than the watch they would have bought. Jimmy was certain that Matthews had gotten the tip from the First Lady, but everyone was thankful regardless and the book was stored in one of the White House’s safes. 

Jimmy should have been the one to present the book to Lecter as he was the senior agent of his detail, but for now it was to remain where it was. He met Zee’s eyes and exchanged a grim look. Will had been missing forty-eight days and Jimmy was willing to bet that he might never be brought back alive. 

***** 

In the theatre room, Hannibal practiced the speech for the State of the Union on Abigail, who sat with rapt attention, offering him an expression that was completely open for study. She was a sophisticated child, but an accurate gauge for his speeches and the response that others would give upon listening to them. Bella, Bedelia, Jack, Donald, Alana, and Abel were also in attendance, each writing furiously on notebooks they’d brought along; Miss Mapp was also making notes, undoubtably attempting to impress him with the response she’d have to give him along with his small group of advisors.

Jack had given up years ago trying to convince him to use a speech writer, and while Hannibal was sure it would afford him more time to do other aspects of his job, he’d much rather outsource the work of researching policies than speaking someone else’s assumptions of what he wanted said. Thankfully, it was considered something of a novelty to the American people, most finding it a respectable trait that demonstrated his intelligence and ability to communicate. There were other politicians who still wrote their own speeches, but the days of that being the standard had long since passed. 

He offered no jokes as the State of the Union Address was not a place for them, though allowed parts that left room for applause of both himself and his administration. Finding the proper plain English to communicate what he wanted to say wasn’t difficult, but didn’t allow for the general sense of elegance he longed for his speeches to have. He despised having to simplify his words, but he was willing to admit that it was better to have everyone understand him than use his normal vernacular. Brilliance came at a cost, after all. 

*****

Will found that he was sitting beside Hannibal in the passenger seat of the Lecter Bentley while Hannibal drove. It was raining outside and the clouds above had the strange green hue thunderheads take when a tornado is imminent. Will swallowed the saliva in his mouth, noting it had the same taste as though he’d been sleeping for some time and that he probably should brush his teeth. Something quiet and classical was playing through the car’s stereo system and the windshield wipers moved in time with the music; Will suspected that Hannibal had chosen the music for that specific reason. It was always about aesthetics.

Hannibal glanced over at him and Will sluggishly leaned back against the seat, trying to focus on the other man.

“We’re going for the Minnesota Shrike,” Hannibal explained after an infinity of staring at one another. 

That didn’t sound quite right and Will murmured a correction. “Maryland…

“No, Will. That is Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Abigail is the Minnesota Shrike because her favourite movie is Fargo.” 

The information seemed sound, but still prickled in Will’s mind that it wasn’t exactly the way things should be. “Oh.”

“Go back to sleep,” Hannibal said gently and Will nodded his head, drifting off as he listened to the methodical rhythm of rain beating against the car. 

*****

“I thought Abigail had instructed all employees not to give me gifts today.”

Margot jumped and nearly knocked over the stack of CDs neatly placed in the dining room’s hidden wall panel that housed the room’s sound system. Lecter had managed to sneak up on her and she could now hear Jimmy Price entering the kitchen behind them.

“Sorry, I just thought this would be the easiest way to do it.” 

She handed over the CD she’d brought along and avoided looking at both Price and Lecter, knowing that being caught breaking a rule was fairly inexcusable for a Secret Service agent. The CD was a recording of the Elizabethan Trust Melbourne Orchestra’s ‘Don Quixote’, a performance she’d overheard him discussing with Agent Matthews a few weeks ago and she’d spotted it in Barnes & Noble the other week; yes, she’d already contributed to the official Secret Service birthday present, but she’d also known he’d appreciate this and so she’d bought it for him. 

But she’d also found herself too embarrassed to hand it over to him, so she’d thought if she’d just mixed it into the collection of CDs he already owned, she could remain anonymous and he’d be able to enjoy it without any change in their interactions.

Lecter’s face and voice betrayed no emotion. “It’s very considerate, Margot.”

“It’s just something I thought you might like,” she said, now embarrassed. 

“Margot, why don’t you get lunch early?” Price said casually, and she nodded, allowing herself to be dismissed from the Residence.

Behind her, Price began to apologise quietly to the President and she knew she would be lectured later for not following orders, probably reprimanded by Price, possibly moved off the detail if Lecter was angry by what she’d done. And if she lost her in with the Lecters’, Mason would _not_ be happy. 

*****

Hannibal decided to forgo dinner in honour of Will. He’d sent Abigail off to Will’s to clean and Abel to the theatre room to entertain himself. Tonight should have been celebrated with food rich on the palette, wine that was worth more than most people’s weekly paycheques, and exquisite sex. He would have spread Will out on the bed and eaten him alive until the sweet boy was a sobbing mess. He would have teased him mercilessly about being the birthday dessert and perhaps lit a candle just to drip wax across flushed and sweaty skin, delighting in every sharp gasp. He’d not indulged in the flesh on his birthday in years and Will would have been forced to make up for lost time.

While he occasionally allowed himself the chance to drop a teacup onto hardwood floor and watch it shatter, tonight he tossed the empty brandy glass into the fire place and when it did not piece itself together, he decided it was time to go to bed and sleep. Two sleeping aids from the bottle he shared with Abigail, and a drink of cool water…then he lay his head on the soft pillow and allowed himself the tranquility of a dreamless night.

*****

Hannibal sat to his right and Abigail to his left. They were the only ones in the Myerhoff, no orchestra or performers. Will saw that he was wearing the same wrinkled cardigan he’d had on the morning he met with Hannibal for the job of assistant to the President. He tried to smooth the crease out of the knit, trying to remember why he’d chosen this article of clothing for such a formal event.

Will frowned. “Why are we listening to country music?”

“It’s patriotic, Will.” 

“You don’t like country music,” he pointed out.

Hannibal looked amused. “It’s good to try new things.”

“This is a Meineke commercial,” Will said, his suspicion growing as he listened to the spoken words. 

“It’s called an intermission, Will. They put them in between the songs so that we can stretch our legs and get something to drink,” Abigail explained because he’d grown up poor.

Will knew it was important to listen to the music to know where they were. Wasn’t it important? He couldn’t remember why.

“It’s the Meyerhoff, Will,” Abigail reminded him, reading his mind. “This is the part where you are shot—“ 

Hannibal called out from the stage. “And I save your life.”

Abigail applauded. “I love this part!”

Hannibal knelt down beside Will’s body on the stage, touching briefly for a pulse, then stood again, taking a bow to the empty audience. 

*****

Abigail was surrounded by sweaty first and second graders, all eager to show her that they could do jumping jacks just like the gym teacher. She was smiling and pretending she was having a good time, but she hated being around kids, reminded of how they used to taunt her for being quiet and reclusive when she was a Hobbs, and then for how she talked and the scarf around her neck when she was older. This was part of the First Lady’s ‘Get Up & Move!’ fitness project that tied in with her father’s ‘No One Goes Hungry’ campaign (and for the record, he _hated_ that name), and she had been able to avoid any appearances since Will was taken, but her father agreed with Mrs Madchen that it was probably time to get back into the public eye as First Lady. 

“We have nothing to hide,” he had reminded her as he prepared her for the day ahead and she’d agreed, because he was always right. “It is time to return to the job you were given.”

When she’d arrived, she’d been handed a bright purple shirt that had the school’s name and the ‘Get Up & Move!’ logo on it, which she put on top of the tank top she already had on. She was also wearing jogging leggings and then a pair of _shorts_ over that, which was so weird to her—Mrs Madchen had explained that it was to keep anyone from taking an inappropriate picture of her while she was bent over and wearing just the leggings, and Abigail could only imagine the look on her father’s face when he saw what she’d had to wear. 

Abigail stretched and twisted in time with the music and gym teacher’s instructions. She’d forgotten that she was supposed to be offering the children words of encouragement and could only fake her enthusiasm. It was difficult to tune everything out the noise, the cameras, and the _staring_.  

 _‘This will end. There’s only twenty more minutes of being around these kids before you get to tour the school,’_ she reminded herself as she took a brief glance up at the clock above the gym’s scoreboard.

And when it did end, she had to stand around and take pictures with the children, smiling and posing and high-fiving while the teachers and parents told them to say ‘cheese!’ A few kids asked her about what kind of classes she liked best about school or if she liked their particular colour shirt they’d been given for the special event. They clung to her arms and clothing, gripping with sweaty palms and pointy little fingers. Georgia seemed to be having a great time, smiling and handing out pencils that had the White House printed on the side to the kids who came up to ask her questions about being the First Lady’s friend. Abigail wondered if she’d crack her molars from how tightly she was grinding her teeth.

The moment they got back into the vehicles, Abigail looked at her Chief of Staff and said, “I can’t do anymore of these functions around little kids. It’s stressing me out.”

Mrs Madchen frowned, handing a water bottle over to her. “Why?”

“I didn’t exactly have a good school experience growing up. All this does is bring back a lot of bad memories. Plus, the shouting gives me a headache.”

Georgia began to fish around in her handbag and pulled out a bottle of Advil for Abigail, who gratefully took two gelcaps and then handed the bottle back.

Mrs Madchen’s look softened as though she thought Abigail was being silly. “Well, I’ll see if we can do a smaller group next time.”

Abigail sighed and then swallowed the gelcaps with some of the water, turning her face away from the school yard of children waving goodbye as the motorcade pulled away.

*****

Abigail sat down on Will’s couch and concentrated on the music she’d selected to listen to for the night; she didn’t like it, but Will obviously did, which meant she should like it, too. Slowly, she succumbed to her memory palace; walking down the hallway of her childhood home in Baltimore, she found her father in the study, seated before his thermin, blindfolded. His head turned towards her as though he could see her regardless and he smiled. _‘Remember, Abigail: when you are learning to appreciate something, you must take it apart and appreciate the small elements that make up the whole.’_

She nodded and he motioned for her to sit beside him on the bench, and so she did. His hands swept around the instrument, coaxing out rhythms and notes she wasn’t able to hear; he paused to make notes on a sheet of music between them. She glanced down and recognised the music as something he’d written for her many years ago. The notes manifested themselves as small blossoms that bloomed around the room. 

He tilted his head towards the ceiling and asked, _‘For instance, what do you think about this chord?’_

She was quiet and listened to the repeating guitar chord. _‘It sounds like it would take a lot of skill to master.’_

 _‘Very good,’_ he told her. _‘Now what about the voice?’_

 _‘The singer is confident,’_ she replied, which was a polite way of saying that she thought he sounded terrible and had no right to have his singing recorded. 

 _‘He certainly is,’_ her father agreed.

She opened her eyes and once more in Will’s living room, she picked up the small bucket of cleaning supplies and stood from the couch, ready to go scrub out Will’s bathroom.

*****

When Abigail headed towards the kitchen to help cook breakfast at the end of the week, her father stood in the doorway of his bedroom, still dressed in his robe.

“Good morning,” she said, curious why he’d not dressed yet, but not willing to ask.

He gave her a rare smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Good morning. I apologise for not preparing your breakfast. I believe I’ve caught the flu. I shall be staying in the Residence today.”

“Would you like for me to stay? I could take care of you.” 

“No, I think shall be fine on my own. Plenty of fluids and rest shall do me well.”

She nodded. “Please let me know if you need anything.”

“I shall, but you mustn’t worry yourself.” He glanced back in the direction of her room and took a step back into his room. “Now, I must excuse myself before Abel arrives.”

She nodded. “I’ll take him to the canteen with me. Do you have everything you need?”

“I do.”

“I’ll be back at lunch to check up on you. May I cook soup for you?”

She would really just reheat a frozen batch of chicken soup they’d made together almost a year ago before they’d moved into the White House, but he no doubt understood that.

“I would appreciate that, Abigail.”

He shut the door and she turned back down the hall, now able to hear the footsteps of Abel and the Secret Service agents who still escorted him places in the Residence.

“Uncle Abel, how are you this morning?” she greeted as she motioned for him to join her at the elevator. 

“I slept well—aren’t we going to eat?”

“In the canteen today. Daddy’s staying home. He’s not feeling well.”

He glanced over at her father’s bedroom doors. “It’s not something serious, right?”

“The flu, most likely. You know that the shots we get can’t protect us from everything.” A rule of living at the White House meant one was injected with at least three dozen preventative vaccinations for possible biological warfare and for the common illnesses that being surrounded by people brought. 

Abel seemed eased with this and launched into a very interesting discussion about anthrax.

*****

Hannibal lie on the bed and stared up at the darkened ceiling. It was well past eleven thirty and with the thermal curtains drawn across the expansive windows, he was able to rest in the quiet shadows of the room. Somewhere, his beloved Will was being kept in a small, dark place as well.

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Go download the OST! Click on 'The Aristocrats' collection/series tag and you'll see it!
> 
> +The watch that the Secret Service gives retails for about $650 USD. Hannibal’s start in the low thousands. 
> 
> +A copy of Inferno by Dante, illustrated by Gustave Dore can cost between $250-$900+ depending on the condition and year published. 
> 
> +Plain English is a simplified English used for people who might not speak English as a first language, have not had a full education of the English language, or might have a harder time processing spoken concepts. It’s been critised for years that the Presidential speeches have gone from a 12 grade reading level (what an American student has to graduate from school with) to a 4th grade reading level (what is taught to about ten year olds). But this has been due to insure more people can understand the president speeches, not because people are getting ‘dumber’ as has been implied.


	40. Chapter Forty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between Jan 28, 2014 through Feb 4, 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in bottom notes

The State of the Union Address was considered to be the most important speech a President could give during the year and Hannibal felt a certain anticipation that normally only occurred when he was in the process of killing someone—not as satisfying, but certainly a well controlled moment that would produce fruitful results as well as demonstrate a certain level of awe by anyone watching.

He also knew this was an opportunity for REDDRAGON to see that he did not consider them to be a threat to his presidency, that he did not consider their leader an equal. He would not address Will’s absence at all tonight, deciding to use the strategy of angering their leader once more into demanding recognition; as Freddie had been attacked, Hannibal wished in turn to become the target.

Abigail had eight guests on behalf of the First Lady’s office who would attend the speech with her, all people who’d written to her during her time in the White House so far: one of the victims of the Boston Marathon bombings, another was a student who’d relied on Lectercare in college, a stay-at-home mother, a soldier returned from a tour of duty, a middle school teacher, a high school student who’d been homeless, a doctor, and a restauranteur. They’d been selected by Jolene Madchen and quiet background checks had been run on them; now they all congregated with his daughter eagerly before they were led off to their seats. It had been a few hours since he’d last seen her and Hannibal found himself missing her presence at his side before a speech. 

The State of the Union Address was held in the chamber of the United States House of Representatives, addressing the 113th United States Congress; Miss Mapp stood at his side, unable to hide her excitement. He smiled and agreed to take a picture with her for her official Twitter. Jack and Bedelia seemed pleased with his willingness participate in social media beyond his ‘quote of the day’ and he allowed his Chief of Staff and cousin to pose with him for a second photo to be uploaded to his own Twitter account.

Last year, as he’d only been President for a month, he’d delivered a speech to a joint session of congress; it hadn’t been an official state of the union address, that honour being saved for this year. They’d attended in 2012 as well; presidential candidates were always invited and so he, Bedelia, and Abigail sat in the front row, watching Chilton without much blinking. 

“Secret Service said Obama’s okay,” Jack murmured in his ear during a lull in the wait to be presented before the nation.

“Good.”

Hannibal had appointed Secretary Obama as his designated survivor earlier in the week; he almost wished something would happen simply for the sake of knowing how unhappy a President Obama would make some people.

The designated survivor is the member of the president’s cabinet who does not attend the address in the case of a catastrophic even, in order to maintain continuity of government. The designated survivor would be taken to a secure location—most likely Camp David—and should every single member of government assembled die, then the designated survivor would be sworn in as President. Attorney General Eric Holder had been designated survivor last year, sequestered at a secret secure location for the duration of the event. 

“Ten minutes, Mr President,” one of the event’s coordinators told him cheerfully. 

Hannibal nodded, his heart rate finally increasing by an additional beat.

*****

Bedelia stood beside the Speaker of the House, calm on the surface; her clothing was carefully chosen to match Hannibal’s, team colours being blue on blue and she’d tucked her rosary in her skirt’s pocket. A silent prayer was on her lips to those that had come before her and she hoped that it was heard.

Bedelia had been anticipating Hannibal’s first State of the Union address since dear Uncle Teddy had first suggested that she and Hannibal run for office; it was moments such as these that made her recall the instantaneous draw she felt when she’d first met him—she knew Hannibal’s potential for greatness first, _truly_ understood it, and had not rested until he was able to exercise it. She was certain his little _hobby_ was due to boredom and now that she’d given him the opportunity of a lifetime, he wouldn’t need to waste his talents on…cooking.

This was the first time in decades that the speech would start exactly at nine PM. The supreme court justices walked in and were seated, Abigail was introduced and went to her seat with her guests, then the Cabinet. Finally, the sergeant at arms began to announce loudly that Hannibal would be entering the room:

“Mr Speaaaaaker! The Presideeeent of the United Staaates!”

The room erupted in cheering and applause as Hannibal came into view. Watching her cousin walking into the chamber felt the same as though she was watching a prize fighter entering the ring. Bedelia felt like the flames of an incinerator, hotter than 1800 degrees, and she dared anyone to stand in her way. As she watched him walking up to front of the large room, she was filled with an intense longing, a mourning. What if her dynasty was to end just as shortly as her beloved uncle’s had?She put those thoughts aside, however, and applauded his approach. 

 _‘Take your time,’_ she thought tenderly. _‘This jackass next to me has to clap until you reach the podium and I can feel it’s killing him.’_

*****

Abigail was introduced and walked down the steps of the balcony; _‘Don’t trip,’_ she ordered herself as she took careful steps. Barney just far enough back and in a standard black suit that no one would actually pay attention to his presence; one of his hands held the back of her elbow, so that in the event she stumbled, she wouldn’t actually fall down the narrow steps. Whomever had designed this chamber definitely hadn’t considered that people in heels might use it one day. 

She was wearing a vibrant blue tea length dress from J.Crew’s unreleased summer line, her office feeling it might be best if she didn’t wear something designer to the speech. She thought the dress was beautiful and simple, something she could pretend she’d picked out for herself; in reality, her father had selected the item, along with the navy silk bolero and the cream coloured scarf tied neatly around her neck. 

The speech was one that she was especially proud of, her father’s first formal debut on the way he’d been caring for the country for the past year. He had accomplished so much and made so many firm changes, as he feared no one, and she knew this legacy would be secured for many, many years to come, just like the family’s late Uncle Jack. 

When her father entered the room, the response was enthusiastic and loud—Abigail made eye contact with her aunt and saw just as much happiness as Abigail felt. She could feel that it was going to be a good night, everything according to her father’s design.

And yet as the speech reached the ten minute mark, something happened that never in a million years would Abigail have expected.

“You lie!”

Wide eyed and mouth open, she glanced out into the audience to pinpoint the person who had yelled; the lighting wasn’t ideal and from her angle, she wasn’t able to identify anyone down on the floor below and then she glanced back up at her father. Oh, her father. His face was emotionless, calm, an unreflecting surface. Of course he wouldn’t show his outrage—

Immediately she shut her mouth and tried to get a neutral expression across her own face, embarrassed at such a lack of control on her own part. Aunt Bee looked positively murderous and from her high vantage point, she could see the movement of Aunt Bee’s hands under the wooden podium surface, no doubt texting someone, most likely Freddie.

Abigail’s guests murmured around her softly and quieted when her father began to speak again, continuing the sentence that had been interrupted as though nothing had happened. What her father needed right now was her attention and she did her job well, clapping and smiling at all the places he told her to, standing when he’d rehearsed for her to, which in turn forced everyone else to stand and cheer until she sat again. But she was uncomfortable and unable to settle the rest of the speech, wishing she could regroup with her family and decide how this transgression should be handled. Aunt Bee was staring at the man who’d shouted, her polite smile still in place, but she’d not blinked much in the time since he’d so grossly interrupted her father; Abigail wondered if he felt pinned in place—she knew she would feel that way.

At the end of the speech, her father gave a small, prim smile and she stood, applauding loudly as everyone else stood. He nodded his head in her direction first and then to various members of the audience. Briefly his eyes met hers and she stood a little taller, her mask still firmly in place, but she knew he could see her true emotions underneath. 

“If you’ll excuse me. I’ll see you back at the White House for refreshments,” she promised her guests as Barney came to collect her. 

She smiled and moved past them before anyone could comment about the interruption; as she moved back up the steps she didn’t allow anyone to stop her, simply smiling and nodding her head in acknowledgement to anyone who tried to get her attention. 

“Who was it?” Barney whispered in her ear.

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Aunt Bee,” she murmured, hiding her discomfort behind a pleasant expression. 

Giving apologetic looks to people he tried to stop her for conversation, she allowed herself to be led from the upper floor through the maze of hallways to reach where her father was.

What to say to him! _‘Your speech was well received’_? No, it wasn’t. _‘Your speech was perfect’_? No, that man had put a blemish on it, a smudged fingerprint on a delicate piece of crystal. _Asshole_. She wanted to push whomever it was into the deep end of a swimming pool and watch them drown. When she reached her father, she could read hints of tension in the way he moved. 

“I wonder if there has ever been such a strong response to a first State of the Union address,” she complimented, smiling  

“Thank you, Abigail. Are you headed back to the house to tend to our guests?” 

She wanted to hold his hand, but he was busying them to avoid hers, so she clasped them before her and said, “Yes, I am. Are you coming?”

“Shortly. Thank you for your attendance tonight.” 

Back to the White House to formulate a plan of action then; she had her battle face on—a brilliant smile that could disarm anyone she crossed. Her aunt fell into time with her, walking side by side with their beautiful smiles and confident, the two most powerful women in the President’s life.

When they reached the motorcade that would take them back to the White House, they entered together, sitting across from one another.  

“Aunt Bee,” Abigail said politely.

“Abigail.” 

She was sure that the agents around them were aware a silent conversation was happening and together they exchanged the small glances that only they as a family were familiar with. Satisfied with Aunt Bee’s expression, Abigail nodded and then turned to Barney. 

“Well, what did you think of his speech?”

He smiled at her, too. “Best one yet.”

*****

Bedelia already had the wheels in motion for the congressman’s downfall within ten minutes of the outburst during Hannibal’s speech. He had been on a short list of people she’d created false scandals for and he’d already given her trouble in the past to warrant being on that list and now, one of her aides was en route to Ms Lounds to deliver a brown envelope containing something of a scandal to punish the man who’d dare cross her.

Bedelia had learned how to text without looking at her keyboard within a week of the technology becoming available. Nothing compared to communicating instantly and silently, something she’d used to her advantage by texting as her cousin’s speech continued. 

<< _1_ _st_ _on air interview w/POTUS post WG recovery/death_ >>

Her phone had buzzed, but she didn’t need to look down to know that Freddie had agreed to the offer, not needing to ask what was required of her to get such a coveted interview. 

She knew that the senator had actually jumped a curb and lightly struck a light pole, but since the only records of the accident were about the fact that he’d had his fender replaced and then six months later, had traded the car in for a new one, would simply sound incriminating with the rest of the ‘evidence’ Bedelia was sending over. The car had since been scrapped, which was beneficial to her cause—made it look as though he’d been trying to cover up something sinister.

Bedelia felt herself relax a modicum. 

*****

“I’m afraid we won’t be thinking about Superbowl this year,” Hannibal informed the young man sent from one of Washington DC’s public high school’s to interview him for a school newspaper. 

It was the day after his State of the Union address

They were in the Residence kitchen together, the student sat at the kitchen counter while Hannibal prepared dinner for Abigail, Abel, and himself far earlier than usual; he had a meeting later in the evening and didn’t wish to leave his daughter and Abel to their own devices—Abel was a messy cook and it had caused he and Abigail much anxiety.

The young man looked put off by his answer and Hannibal guessed him to be an avid football fan. “Oh, so you won’t watch?”

Hannibal wished he lived in a country where it was socially acceptable to hate professional sports. “I am doubtful. There is much work for me and taking leisure time while Will Graham is in a hostage situation seems inappropriate.”

“So no predictions on who will win?” the student asked, sounding disappointed.

“I will not pick a favourite.” Hannibal plated the small desserts he’d removed from the refrigerator and gestured to one of them. “May I offer you dessert? Basil yoghurt panna cotta with raspberries and ginger.”

The young man hesitated. “Is it gluten-free?”

“No,” Hannibal said, half-curious if the young man would have to decline; if he did, then Hannibal would bring it out to Miss Mapp, who was waiting out in the sitting room between the hall and the kitchen. 

The young man reached out for the plate, nodding. “Well, my girlfriend won’t know.”

“It shall be our secret,” Hannibal agreed, handing the small dish over with a cloth napkin and small dessert fork.

Hannibal found it fascinating that someone would be willing to compromise their morals behind a partner’s back for the sake of food. He’d tempted vegetarians the same way, people laughing nervously as they tasted forbidden meat, tempted dieters with the same way, people giving moans as they consumed forbidden sugar. At least Will was different in this situation—Hannibal wanted to know how long it would take before the other man would allow Hannibal to feed him something made of human flesh. He wanted Will to ask for it—Hannibal wouldn’t sneak it into his meals because the satisfaction of Will seeking it out from him would be so much more thorough. 

“Oh man,” the young man said, mouth still full, “this is the best thing I’ve ever had in my life. Where did you learn to make this?”

“My late aunt.”

“She must have been a hell of a cook.”

Hannibal bristled slightly, not appreciating the teenager’s use of strong language while addressing Lady Murasaki’s memory. “She was.”

*****

_Tattle-Politics update!_

_Startling information has come to light that the newest Senator for Arkansas is behind the hit and run deaths of two homeless women in 2010. An anonymous member of the Senator’s office has claimed to have been forced to cover up the two fatal hit-and-run incidents that cost two women their lives in May and July of 2010…_

*****

“Hey, get out.” Will shielded his eyes as he stared up at the man talking to him. “Superbowl is on.”

Will blinked, unsure if he was hallucinating and the man gave an annoyed sound before giving him a rough nudge with his boot. 

“Look, you either can come out and watch it for an hour or stay in here—“

“I’ll come out,” Will whispered, trying to stand up. 

The man gestured for two of the other kidnappers to help him out and they half dragged him across the concrete floor and then dropped him between the tv and where three other members were sitting on the folding chairs. Will laid down on the concrete. He knew he looked like a mess, but he was so tired and sick feeling—they’d stopped giving him food and water everyday and while wasn’t positive, he thought he might be receiving a bottle every other day, and food every two days. 

“You want a few chips?” the woman of the group asked. 

Will nodded slowly and held out his still ziptied hands. She gave him a few brightly coloured triangle shaped chips and he was shoving them in his mouth before his mind could even identify them: Doritos, nacho cheese flavour. The powdered flavouring and salt tasted so good, so damn good and he licked it off his palms.

“Slow down. You’re going to make yourself sick,” she told him, sounding irritated. 

“Thank you,” he gasped, holding his hands out for more. 

She rolled her eyes and pulled a few more from the bag, but one of the men called out, 

“Make him beg for it.”

She grinned and held the chips out of reach. “Beg.”

“Please,” he said softly, trying to get to his knees, but failing. 

“You can do better than that,” she prompted, her voice filled with mocking encouragement, the way elementary school teachers tried to get their students to work harder.

Will, who had never begged for anything, didn’t know what to do. He was still half convinced this was another weird hallucination. “Please? I’m being good. I just want a few.”

She dumped them on the floor and he was too busy licking them off the cold concrete to be humiliated. Finally done and aware the novelty of having him perform had worn off, Will rest on his side, facing the tv. He drowsily stared at the screen, watching a touch down and wasn’t sure if he was drifting off to sleep as his head rest on the ground. Two of the men started complaining about Ricky Martin being allowed to perform and Will made a mental note to have Ricky Martin sing at all national events from now on just to piss them off. 

“Fucking finally,” one of the men grumbled as the halftime show came to an end.

A boot probing his back. “Who you cheering for, Graham?”

“I…the team on the left,” he lied. 

“What team is that?” another voice asked, mocking.

“I’m having a hard time seeing the screen,” Will admitted. He wished he’d been allowed to keep his glasses.

There was quiet for a moment and then he heard someone walking around behind him. One of the men was unwrapping something from a mylar wrapper and dropping quarter-sized crumbled chunks of something soft and light tan onto the cement.

“Eat this,” he was told and he rolled over to pick up a piece with his mouth.

“What is it?”

“An MRE bar.” 

It was sweet and vaguely lemony.

“Tastes like a fever,” he mumbled around the food in his mouth. 

Will drifted in and out of sleep after eating the entire bar, rousing only where there was a particularly loud cheer. At some point in the third quarter, he was kicked none to gently in the ribs and told,

“Drink.” 

Gatorade was poured onto the floor and desperate to do something about his parched throat, he rolled onto his stomach so he could suck it up off the filthy concrete. The stream of Gatorade that it was pouring onto the floor was splattering on his face and he closed his eyes to protect them. The liquid was room temperature and he couldn’t identify the flavour, but all that mattered was the sweetness and the moisture on his dried membranes. 

He knew that this kind of behaviour would eventually escalate to being pissed on or being stripped of his clothes, but he was equal parts too physically weak and too smart to try to prevent it at this moment. No point in giving them any ideas.

He licked it up off the floor until there was nothing left, panting in exhaustion from the exertion and resting his cheek against the damp, cool floor, which felt like heaven on his feverish skin. His mind drifted in and out of the fantasy of he and Abigail with Winston at Hyannis Port until the silence in the room stifled. He opened his eyes and saw that the tv had been muted and the Dragon had entered the room.

Will held very still, almost unable to make eye contact with the masked man towering over him. 

“Why is he out?”

“We were keeping an eye on him,” one of the men assured quickly. 

“It’s the Super Bowl,” the woman said quietly, sounding nervous.

The Dragon’s presence in the room was overwhelming and Will could tell that everyone was as intimidated as he was. However, he knew that if anyone were to suffer any kind of repercussions, his would be the most likely to involve pain. 

“So we should show him a little mercy today.” The Dragon stared at Will.

“We just thought that he could see the game, then go back in,” one of the men agreed, tension in his voice.

“Has Hannibal given his State of the Union?” Will asked groggily.

The Dragon nodded his masked head. “And didn’t mention you at all.”

Will didn’t mind—perhaps Hannibal didn’t want people to realise how dire his situation was as a hostage. There was a good chance that he didn’t want anyone aware that there were hostage videos being sent to him, didn’t want anyone to know who to give credit to for his disappearance. 

The Dragon walked around behind him and Will tensed as he listened to the man sit down heavily in chair directly behind him. Will let out a grunt of pain as the Dragon brought his heavy boots to rest on Will’s bruised ribs like an ottoman and instinctually curled into the fetal position to protect himself. 

The man began to laugh loudly and Will tried not to wish for death. 

*****

Hannibal had on a sheriff’s uniform. He looked like as though he belonged in a small town and Will wasn’t sure if his badge read Lecter or Starling. Hadn’t her father been a sheriff? Is that what he’d been told?

Where were they? It was a boathouse— ** _the_** boathouse and Will could sense the young man Abigail had killed, under the water.

“Will, we know what you've done,” Hannibal told him. 

Will pointed to the table along the wall that had food arranged buffet style. “Just stay and eat dinner with me. I cooked it just for you.” 

Hannibal gave the green beans a small sneer. “I don't eat food with french’s onions on top.” 

Will could feel a tightness in his chest—a desire to prove himself, to impress someone wealthier. It hurt to be rejected—he had nothing fancy or expensive to offer, only things made with love. 

“Then just have the meatloaf,” he said, knowing it was made of human remains and Hannibal would appreciate that. 

The badge on Hannibal’s chest was polished until it shone. “Will, you're killing people.” 

He looked down at the casserole. “What—what does it matter?”

“It’s wrong, Will,” Hannibal said, expressionless. 

Will knew he was right, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “I just wanted you to notice me.” 

At this, Hannibal gave a small smile. “Why?”

“I wanted to impress you,” Will admitted. 

“By killing people?”

“By making art. 

Hannibal’s head tilted slightly to the side. “How does that make you feel?”

“How does that make you feel?” Will mimicked like a petulant child. 

“You’re being rude, Will. I'm going to have to arrest you now.” 

“Please. Please just eat what I've cooked for you,” Will begged, clinging onto the front of Hannibal’s shirt. 

Hannibal took a step forward, imposing into Will’s space. His voice was low and guttural, thick with his accent. “What’s in the meat, Will?”

“I made it for you,” Will moaned, wanting him to understand. 

“I smell death on you, Will,” Hannibal’s breath hot against his ear. 

A phone was ringing and he looked across the lake to see Agent Katz holding an old land line, a tan phone that looked tired and in need of disinfectant. 

“Are you going to answer that, Will? Are you going to answer that?” she asked, a smile slowly growing on her face.

Will’s eyes slowly focused and he realised he was still in The Box. And the phone was still ringing, Beverly fading away. There was a phone ringing out there. Will felt his heart jump—that meant he was somewhere that had actual connexions to the outside world. He’d be able call for help and they’d be able to trace the line back to this exact location.

It was a small relief that filled him, that there might be help waiting just around the bend—they were close enough to residential or commercial zones that there were power lines. It also meant that there was a possibility someone planning to maintain the power or utility lines might notice something strange was going on and alert the local authorities. 

Despite the facade of survivalist independence, there was still a heavy connexion to the outside world: he’d seen and smelt fast food often enough to know that they weren’t completely isolated, they had access to cable and while it hadn’t revealed anything about the locale they were at, it was a good sign. If they had power that wasn’t contributed entirely by generator and they had landline phones, it meant he could be found or he could escape. 

Will doubted these people were stupid enough to upload or mail the videos they were recording from a nearby location and with the advent of cheap and easy travel, he could only imagine how they were interacting with the outside world. Probably catching flights to neighboring states.

He knew he was lucid and was ninety-nine percent sure that his thoughts were rational, so not wanting to waste the moment, he pushed onward, pursuing as many conclusions as possible. 

What else could he consider?

What else was important to ruminate on?

Money.

How was this group funding itself? Small crime, bank robbery, or a personal sponsor? They’d need a piece of property where no one else would interfere—so that meant one of their members either owned the property or they’d killed someone and were impersonating them. If it was the former, was the property listed under an alias or an actual legal name? Would they take that risk? If they’d killed someone, didn’t they run the risk of someone knowing at some point?

People who were coordinated enough to pull off the kidnapping of a high profile person guarded by one of the most highly trained security forces were definitely able to pull off a massive bank robbery. And his mind immediately jumped to a conclusion that didn’t seem so farfetched.

There had been a massive armed robbery in Alabama about a year before that hadn’t had solved; it had happened on a Friday afternoon when everyone had deposited their paycheques and tips, and a money delivery by an armoured truck, leaving a bank flush with cash ripe for the picking. The news had given a rough estimate of how much money had been taken, not taking into account how much had been in the safety deposit boxes that had been broken into. The security guards had been shot and three of the bank tellers, plus a man who’d tried to be a hero, which had made six fatalities and the third largest cash bank robbery in the US to date at $18.7 million dollars.

He was sure Hannibal could have figured that out for himself—if Hannibal could connect the two together, then perhaps he would be able to use information that was lacking from his kidnapping that would fill in the empty spaces that needed answers. 

Will was aware of an online black market site, known as the ‘ebay of illegal items and services’, called the Silkroad; the creator of the site had been arrested not long ago, so Will had been made aware of it simply through a White House memo, something he tucked away into the back of his mind, but was now very important information. If the militia had decided to source via an online seller, they would be able to get everything all at once, weapons that were more obscure. However, there was a possibility that the guns could have been purchased at gun shows, which didn’t require background checks—that would be an easier and less traceable way for them to build their arsenal. Besides, they all seemed the type to blend into the gun show scene—probably could even find sympathisers there.

They would have replaced their weapons from the robbery to prevent anyone from tracing back their crimes to what had happened in Alabama—

He was aware of the door to The Box opened and he kept his head lowered, not wanting eye contact. This gave him unexpected and unintended results.

“Think he’s stroking out again,” a male voice said. “Hey, Graham. Graham. Will Graham.”

Will feigned being unaware, knowing that his life possibly depended on himself faking a loss of time. He was grabbed roughly and the man complained loudly as the woman that kept guard smirked. Will hobbled slowly in the direction he was being led in, not requiring a hood of his head. At the back of the room there was a door on the same wall The Box was on and even though he’d been aware of the direct he’d been led countless times based on counting the steps, it was also good to see where he was because he sure as shit wasn’t going to wear a hood and count his steps out of here.

Into the bathroom, which was down a dead end hallway; unfortunately with them believing he wasn’t aware, they weren’t going to give him any privacy and Will really didn’t want to relieve himself in front of either person. He was led before the toilet and he stood there, trying not to panic as he thought about what he was supposed to do. 

“Jesus, I’m not going to do it for you,” the man snapped impatiently.

The woman let out a loud laugh. “Jeez, Mandy—just let him piss himself.”

Will continued to hold still, not sure what to do, but as he weighed his options, he heard the woman coming over and he fought every instinct to tense up. She gently nudged at his arms and he realised she was trying to prompt him. So he did as he was expected and she giggled, backing up towards the door.

The man—Mandy?—took a few steps away and still pretending he was in a stupour, Will pissed.

“You just have to get his body to go through the motions,” the woman explained and Will hoped she was facing away. “He’s really responsive to directions. All you have to do is touch—“

“I don’t want to touch him!” the man protested.

“Typical, Ralph. Bailing out on a job—“

“Fuck you, Elaine.”

Oh, now he had two names—Ralph and Elaine. Yes, they were common in America, but it was something to work with. 

“He’s done,” the man spat.

“Great,” the woman replied, her tone irritated.

As he was being put back into The Box, he felt the woman’s hand reached into his sweatpants pocket briefly before the door was shut behind him. He frowned, sinking down to the floor. It hadn’t been sexual, so why had she done it? Belatedly, he realised there was still a weight in his pocket and he reached in to find an unwrapped MRE bar. 

As a woman, she’d have to act especially tough and cruel in front of the men and her leader, so even if she was a rational human being who would otherwise want to give him better treatment, she couldn’t show that side, lest she be considered weak and expendable. Will didn’t buy into the whole ‘women are more sympathetic’ thing—there was a good chance she was protecting her best interest by keeping him alive. It was one thing to be charged with kidnapping and accessary to murder, it was another to be charged with the cruel detention of someone resulting in their death. If they were caught alive, there was still a good chance that she get sentenced to life verses the death penalty as she hadn’t actually shot the Secret Service agents with him that day. 

As Will ate the food, trying not to get too emotional about the fact he was being fed after being so hungry, he thought about the final option he’d considered before he’d been allowed out: 

Someone could be giving them money.

That was an interesting and terrifying thing to consider. Was it another country, trying to dispose Hannibal by forcing him to step down? Was it a company, someone who didn’t like the new, radical, and unfriendly laws Hannibal was passing? Or—this was the worst thing to consider—was a single person or family with a vendetta against the Lecters or the laws passed, paying mercenaries to get what they wanted?

Someone like Mason Verger?

Will quickly discarded that last thought. Verger, upon reflection, wouldn’t ask for silly things like prisoner releases. He would prefer to enact his sadistic fantasies on his victim before Hannibal stepped down—and he would want to be personally present for it. But possibly someone else. Hannibal could easily make enemies.

As Will licked at his fingers of any minute crumbles of MRE bar, trying not to think about the fact he’d not washed his hands, he glanced up and as though his body was tilting back in a dentist’s chair, he tried to right himself abruptly, gasping loudly as he woke up in the back office aboard Air Force One.

Hannibal stood next to him, a hand gently resting on Will’s shoulder.

“Hannibal,” Will said, feeling embarrassment for being caught sleeping on the job, for relief of seeing him.

Hannibal smiled, something small and subtle. “I’m sorry to wake you, Will.” 

“I was dreaming about you,” Will said softly, sitting up and stretching his back. 

“Were you?”

Will tried to think about what it was that he’d been dreaming about; something that had stressed him, something that had felt wrong and horrible and—

“I had cooked you dinner but you didn't want any,” Will admitted, suddenly not able to make eye contact. 

“How rude of me.” 

“No, you couldn't because…” he thought about the meat. “Where are we going?”

“Italy.” 

Will made an irritated noise. "For how long?" 

“An overnight stay. I hope you'll tell me more about your dream later.” 

Will looked out the windows and saw that the brightness outside was not due to sunlight reflecting off clouds, but nothingness, a blank white void. He stood from the chair unsteadily.

“Hannibal.” 

“Yes Will.”

He walked towards the window. What was going on? He didn’t remember Hannibal mentioning Italy on their agenda.

“Hannibal, why are we going to Italy?” He turned around and saw he was alone in the office, the door out to the seating cabin slightly ajar. “Hannibal?” He walked down the aisle of empty seats slowly until he reached the press cabin, where Hannibal stood in the centre. “What have you done?”

The entire press cabin had been slaughtered, blood pooled on the floor and sprayed on the seats. Even in death, the bodies made horrible noises and Will took a step back, less in horror of the actions, but to distance himself from the sounds behind his eyelids.  

Hannibal stepped towards him. “I’m afraid I can't keep you here at the White House if this is what you're doing to the people of Maryland—“

Will shook his head. “You’re the Chesapeake Ripper.” 

“No, Will.” 

Hannibal was in his space once more and Will, feeling very much like a boat adrift on the ocean, needed Hannibal to be his anchor, the moor that held him in place so that he couldn’t become further lost. 

“It’s okay, they were rude. It's the law.” He closed his eyes and rest his head against the older man’s, letting Hannibal pet his head. 

“Will, I'm afraid that you've done something very bad.” 

“It’s the encephalitis,” Will whispered, opening his eyes. 

They were in Baltimore, in the dining room that Will had seen once in a home video of Abigail preparing the table for her first dinner party.

“Would you like it gone?” Hannibal asked and when Will didn’t know what he meant, he clarified, “The encephalitis. Would you like it gone?”

Will’s gut clenched at the thought of the encephalitis ever returning, how that time had been a hell on earth, because he couldn’t trust his own mind. “Yes.”

“Then I shall cut it out.” 

Abigail entered the dining room from a side door that led into the kitchen, pushing a cart with medical supplies; she wore a white doctor’s coat and even though there was a surgical mask over her mouth, he could tell she was smiling 

“Sometimes Daddy lets me help,” she said proudly as Hannibal began to scrub disinfectant over his arms and hands.

Will was on his back on their expansive dining room table and he could hear the whirring of a bone saw and felt small taps along his crown, each noise a small chime, like tapping a metal file against a bell. Hannibal lifted up small piece of something pinkish gray and gelatinous. Will was sitting upright now and Abigail held out a kidney shaped metal bowl to accept the piece of his brain.

“Don’t you think it smells sweet, Will?” Hannibal asked.

Will felt a small trickle of blood running down his forehead and he watched the piece of brain being placed in the bowl, which was now a buttered copper pan. “Is that safe? To remove that much of my brain?”

“Are you feeling cooler now? Do you still have a fever?” Abigail asked as she sprinkled herbs over the top of the sizzling meat. 

It was a mistake. This didn’t seem right. “I feel cold. You need to put it back.”

“You’re fine. I'm cold, too. So's Daddy. See?” 

She pulled her surgical mask off and he could see that she really didn’t look all good, that her skin was losing colour. 

“Your lips are blue,” he told her, feeling the quelling of nausea that a mistake had been made somewhere.  

“It’s okay. Relax. Daddy knows how to remove bad things. He fixed me, too.” She pulled away her scarf and showed the open wound on her throat, no longer bleeding.

Will couldn’t turn his head to look at Hannibal. “How did you get it out of her?”

“I killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs and replaced him with myself.”

“Abigail,” he whispered trying to get out of the chair. “He’s sick.”

“No, he just wanted to protect me from someone who couldn’t shape me properly.”

Will remembered how in the security footage Abigail bled out on the hospital floor. That couldn’t have been an accident.  

“You drained her like a lamb, didn’t you?” He was on the table again, surrounded by beautiful appetisers and flowers. 

“The meat is not edible otherwise, Will.”

“It takes one pint of blood before your stomach starts to reject it,” Abigail informed him as she squeezed her fist over his lips so that the blood pooled in his mouth. 

“Oh god.” The blood tasted old, like the earth and he could feel his body rejecting it. He turned to look at the man looking down at him. “Hannibal, I’m dying.”

“We are all dying, Will.”

“I…”

Hannibal smoothed Will’s damp curls with a gloved hand. “Shhh…”

*****

“We ran the DNA test on the teeth,” the FBI specialist said that evening’s meeting. “They’re Graham’s. Fresh.”

“This one was removed. The other one knocked out,” Hannibal said as he evaluated the evidence photos he’d been provided. “There are small marks on the enamel that would correspond with the metal teeth on a pair of pliers. We shall have these teeth moulded so that when Will is recovered, dental implants will be ready for him.” Hannibal frowned. “He’s susceptible to infection now more than ever and shall experience difficulties eating, which puts him at considerable risk for further malnutrition.”

At this, Hannibal’s hand gripped the file folder harder; the thought that Will would now be unable to eat the limited amount of food he was being offered was simply unacceptable.

///*****///*****///

Abigail sat on her bed, running the blade carefully over the original scar on her palm; she didn’t apply too much pressure, not wanting to damage any nerves in her hand. She’d brought one of the kitchen’s paring knives with her, knowing that her father had had the ushers sharpen all of them earlier that morning. It was a disgusting feeling and her muscles tingled every time she emphasised the mark, but she continued until she was satisfied, then quickly carried the knife to the bathroom so she could rinse it off in the sink. Blood welled in her palm and she raised her hand to her mouth, suckling it down her throat. This was lonely behaviour and she was aware of that, but she couldn’t bear the thought of not having the scar anymore. Aching and raw was better than clean and closed.

///*****///*****///

Will noticed that there was a plastic chair beside him and in it sat Franklyn Froideveaux. Startled at the realisation he had company, Will flinched and stared at the man smiling at him.

After an eon of silence, Franklyn explained. “I thought you might be lonely.”

All tension of an impending threat unwound; Will smiled in return. “Hello, Franklyn.”

“So…how are you? Holding up?”

“Not great. I’m pretty sick. And I think I’ve been hallucinating,” he admitted, because yes, he was grateful for company. 

“Oh, that sounds scary.”

Will nodded slowly. “It is. They always make sense and seem realistic, but then afterwards…I can’t be sure if they were logical in the first place.”

“I don’t know much about medicine. We really need an expert for that.” Franklyn removed a phone from his jacket and observed the screen. “No service.”

“Who were you going to call?” Will asked curiously.

“President Lecter. He was a doctor. I’m sure he’d have an answer.” Franklyn slipped his phone back in his pocket.

“He was a surgeon,” Will specified, because there _was_ a difference. And he could see that now, very clearly. “All that shit he did in the clinic was so he could bide his time.”

“For what?” Franklyn looked curious. 

“He was making himself look normal…not just normal, but safe. If anyone ever started asking around about him, they’d not only say he was good, but they’d actually defend him. The perfect cover.” Will shook his head angrily, because Hannibal was a _genius_ and Will could appreciate that, despite his disgust with everything else.

“Well, he _had_ to do it, I’m sure,” Franklyn said, ever seeing the silver lining. 

“Hannibal doesn’t do anything good without a motive.”

“I don’t think—“

“Everything good has a self-serving motive, Franklyn. Adopting Abigail? Saving her life? Donating his money? Involving me in a relationship when he knew I could never say no?” That last part was said bitterly and Will could hear the point where he’d been ready to cry.

“If Hannibal ever asked me, I’d be gay for him,” Franklyn admitted after a life time of waiting. 

Will’s finger tapped on the edge of his chair in annoyance; there was more to their relationship with one another that ‘being gay for one another’. 

“Hannibal kills and _eats_ people.” There. That ought to scare Franklyn away and leave Hannibal for himself. 

“Well…” Franklyn played with the end of his tie. “It could be worse.”

“How could it be worse?”

“He could only save that for his sexual partners. Like a praying mantis,” Franklyn contemplated, his eyes open in wide-eyed innocence. “Or he could be physically abusive.” His eyes avoided Will’s. “Or he could actually not like you at all, but just keep you around because you’re easy to toy with.”

Will could see through the statement, a sad evaluation of Franklyn’s understanding of what his friendship with his governor truly was. “Like what Tobias Budge does to you.”

Franklyn gave him a sad smile. “I just want him to like me. I try so hard to be just like him, just like what he wants, but I can tell that he finds me boring and if I wasn’t so useful to him, he’d throw me away and never give me another thought.”

“Tobias Budge isn’t someone you should want to impress. He lacks empathy,” Will explained gently.

“But he’s everything I want to be. Handsome, intelligent, witty, powerful—he’s in complete control of his life.”

“And you feel a desperate lack of control.”

“It hard to feel good enough to be around people like Tobias, especially when Abigail and Hannibal are there.” Franklyn let out a sigh. “I just want people to like me.”

“You’ve got a good heart,” Will said after some time; unlike Hannibal, he didn’t say nice things just to placate people—he actually meant it.

Franklyn’s smile returned. “Thanks. Do you think you could tell me that out there?”

“I’ll try to remember.” Will was quiet and then considered that even if it was too late for himself to be saved, at least Franklyn could be given a chance to run. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Yes.” 

“I think you’re attracted to psychopaths. You desire people with a certain sense of cruelty, people who don’t regard you as their equal. You want to tame something dangerous so that it will protect you from the ills of the world. So that the world will fear you instead. It’s very dangerous thinking…that you’ll be the one to survive holding a tiger by the tail.”

Franklyn frowned. “People tame tigers all the time.”

“No, they don’t, Franklyn. This is just dangerous and stupid, plain and simple.”

Franklyn sighed and looked away. His features froze and then slowly, the air began to carry particles of his skin away. Will studied Franklyn and realised he’d turned to ash, floating away until there was nothing left of the man that had been there. Will started considering the matter and then let out a startled gasp, recoiling as he realised this was a hallucination. His eyes opened and he found he was breathing hard. It was quiet outside of the box and he decided it must still be nighttime, which meant he might have been sleeping, though it was difficult to be certain. 

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Trigger warning: someone uses a knife on themselves—not as self harm, but to make a mark. Section marked with ///*****///*****/// before and after.
> 
> +Trigger warning: dehumanisation and degradation in a non-sexual context
> 
>  
> 
> +Shout out to HRHCoco re: State of the Union. I was finishing up that scene when I saw your comment!!!
> 
> +a human body cremates at 1800 degrees fahrenheit
> 
> +Recipe for Basil Yoghurt Panna Cotta with Raspberries and Ginger is from the June 2015 Elle Decor magazine.
> 
> +Ricky Martin did not perform at Super Bowl XLIX
> 
> +MRE bars often have a lemon flavour as it’s considered the most palatable. They often contain between 2000-4000 calories.


	41. Chapter Forty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between Feb 5-13, 2014

Hannibal suspected that Jack knew more about his lack of faith than he let on, but never acknowledged it in fear of the damage that would be created by honesty. After all, no one wanted an atheist president. And after years of maintaining his presence in the Kennedy clan, feigning a devout adherence to religion had given him a wonderful level of privilege than if he’d been allowed to adopt an openly secular lifestyle. But the situation with Will’s captivity had stretched his patience thin and Hannibal found the constant pressure of performing as a devout Roman Catholic for the nation’s reassurance to be draining on his dignity.So when Jack came to confirm the details of the annual National Prayer Breakfast that every president had participated in since Dwight D Eisenhower, Hannibal could sense the other man was prepared to fight. As always, Hannibal was, too. 

“I will not be attending that function while Will is gone,” Hannibal said, handing the schedule for the prayer breakfast back.

“Maybe you could say a prayer for Will,” Jack suggested and Hannibal noted the hardness in his voice. 

“Do you think that would work, Jack?” he asked drily. “I am close to the Kennedy legacy after all and God seems to hear a Kennedy’s prayer quicker than he does anyone else. Or perhaps I should request for Bedelia to pray for Will’s safe return. Or any of my other cousins for that matter. Shall I have the speech writer draft something up?”

Jack glared at him. “I’m trying to keep this White House running smoothly.”

“It’s not a machine, Jack—it’s an organism. Parts die and are shed for growth of the new.”

Tenacious as ever, Jack needed to get the last word in. “Please consider it.”

A flare of anger heated his and while he wasn’t about to outright say ‘I don’t believe in this’, he did want to make his intentions on the matter very clear. “I will not go before the cameras to perform for everyone simply because they wish to watch me pray. To quote my late Uncle John, _‘Our problems are man-made, therefore they may be solved by man. No matter of human destiny is beyond human beings’_. I refuse to _pretend_ that wishful thinking alone shall bring Will back to me.”

“It’s not doing Will any good to have you sitting here, either. You say you don’t want the White House to cow to these terrorists, and yet you’re refusing to make public appearances when the nation needs it?” Jack held his gaze and Hannibal found the intensity of the other man’s ire beautiful.

“I am refusing to use religion as an illusion that we are holding our ground against them. That is my final decision on the matter.” Hannibal remained calm, knowing that it was aggravating to his Chief of Staff. “Notify them I shall not be attending.”

Jack stormed out of the office, muttering to himself and Hannibal saw the look of secondhand embarrassment on Agent Katz face at the situation. As he turned his attention back to the speech he was writing, a quote from Nietzsche came into his head. 

_‘After coming into contact with a religious man I always feel I must wash my hands.’_

*****

There were many complaints from the religious right about Hannibal’s lack of attendance the following day and Abigail even asked softly if perhaps she should attend in his place, no doubt wishing to ease the tension against him, but he assured her that it was not necessary to do so. Bedelia was out of the country for the day and thusly no one in the First Family made it to the event. There was a small voice of approval from the atheist corner of the nation and Hannibal had smiled at the private allegiance he felt to them. 

As the first prayers were being said at the National Prayer Breakfast, Hannibal slipped into the outdoor pool hidden in the private backyard; he’d not frequented the pool in his time at the White House out of paranoia that the sanitation of the water wasn’t as high as he’d become accustomed to, but he’d missed swimming and after they’d refilled the pool this morning and put new filters in, his confidence in the quality was higher. The water was cold, but not enough to act as a deterrent to him and he braced himself against the unpleasant temperatures; as he glided through the pool, he imagined that he was in the ocean swimming out to the boat that Will was adrift in. Instead of clear waters, he imagined the choppy waves and depths he couldn’t see. Every time he brought his head to the surface, he looked at the dark skies above him and took in a deep breath, wishing that he was smelling sea air and not chlorine. 

He swam for thirty minutes, committing himself to laps that worked abdominal muscles sorely underused as of late. Completely chilled, he then went to the third floor sauna, where he sat in contemplation for forty minutes; as he was enveloped by the heavy blanket of steam, he decided that he would find more pleasure in Abigail’s company than without, so he stepped outside the sauna for a moment, gave her a quick text of his location, and returned to the thick humidity.

She arrived about ten minutes later and sat down next to him in the sauna, breathing in the air deeply. Together they remained in quietude and she closed her eyes, tilting her head back on the wall behind them; he could smell the tobacco and cleaning chemicals starting to detox from her body and he closed his eyes as well, contemplating that perhaps he would allow her to stay the night in his room. He missed the presence of having someone with him while he slept, something the came to him as a surprise, but then again, perhaps it didn’t. He’d spent so much of his life alone and while that had suited him well, in the past few years, he’d found that having a constant presence in his life such as Abigail had been _nice_ , and once he’d found Will, those feelings only intensified. 

Perhaps it was a weakness. His lips quirked into a slight smile. 

“I love you, Abigail,” he murmured.

She found his hand and squeezed it. “I love you, too.” 

*****

The Olympics opened on the seventh of February and considering the very strained nature of Hannibal’s relationship with the current leader of Russia, the fact that the international gathering had become such a disaster had lightened Hannibal’s mood considerably. The Olympic village hadn’t been completed, there was a hold up on a delivery of yoghurt to the American athletes due to customs, there were reports of stray dogs everywhere, and it appeared Bob Costas had something wrong with his eyes.

“Pink eye,” he diagnosed before changing the channel.

“Absolute shame,” Abel stated, looking up from his newspaper. “I certainly hope this won’t affect the performance of our athletes.” 

He was enjoying the considerable fallout of the failed event—the Olympics wasn’t a competition that he was interested in and he’d had a hard time faking it when he’d had to call the Americans representing their country in various events to congratulate them and hope them the best in their events. Abel conversely seemed very interested in the Olympics and Hannibal wasn’t sure if he remembered that about his former lieutenant governor. Perhaps time in captivity had made his tastes change.  

However, Hannibal was very interested on the comments being made about the prayer breakfast the day before. There were those making excuses for his absence— _“Surely something’s happened to keep him from attending because we all know he’s a devout Catholic!”, “How can you expect him to show up in a time of crisis?”_ —there were those criticising his absence—“ _Not a single president has skipped the National Prayer Breakfast and I’d like to know why he did. This country was founded on Christian principles and having a leader who doesn’t participate in an important part of Washington culture concerns me!”_ —there were those who celebrated his absence— _“Hannibal Lecter is showing everyone that there should be a separation of church and state!”, “Look, atheists and other non-church attending citizens have felt alienated for years and finally we have someone who gets that!”_ —and there were those who were certain this was a sign of the coming end of days— _“This is what we mean when we say this is a godless nation!”_.

The puppy came running into the room, tongue lolling and stumbling over its own feet; Abigail came jogging in after the puppy, her cheeks flushed and a thin leash in hand. The puppy placed its front paws Hannibal’s shins, looking up at him eagerly and letting out an excited yip as its tail wagged. Winston looked up curiously at Hannibal, perhaps wondering what the excitement was about.  

“She couldn’t wait to see you,” Abigail said, bending down to pick up the puppy.

“I can’t imagine why,” Hannibal said, petting the little animal’s head.

Abigail smiled at him as the puppy tried to lick his hand and Hannibal wondered if Will would be happy to see how he’d accepted another dog into his life. Winston got up from his bed on the floor to wander over and see if Hannibal might give him attention as well. Oh, how precious Winston had been to Will, the last thing of value he’d had and then offered over to Abigail.

Excusing himself, he left for his bedroom to read the book of poetry Will had gifted him. 

*****

Freddie looked down at her stomach in the full length mirror in her bathroom. The angry red letters carved into her stomach with a knife and glued to the wheelchair while he did it, she’d screamed at the top of her lungs, trying to thrash as he mutilated her. That had been his last message, a permanent reminder that he was oh-so-very real and not some conspiracy as some of her readers had speculated. Her eyes traced over the words, which were reversed in the mirror, but she knew what they said. 

RED 

DRAGON

Below her navel was a symbol she knew from her mom’s mahjong tiles:

中

_Red dragon_. 

Of course the moment she’d gotten to her parents’ house after the hospital released her, she did a quick google search to learn more about the symbol, hoping for insight into the psyche of the person who’d done this to her. The use of the term ‘dragon’ was incorrect apparently, the tile representing one of the three forms of life. _Hóngzhong_ symbolised the animal order, which included humans and dragons. It belonged to the seven ‘honour tiles’. Honour. She stared at it with a very sour and bile taste in her mouth; he’d ‘honoured’ her with his mark, that sonofabitch. She wanted him rotting in a supermax, 

Her phone blipped at an incoming call and she pulled it out of the back pocket of her shorts, glancing down at the name. Wendy. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding—she kept worrying that anyone trying to contact her was _him_.

“Hey,” she answered, hearing traffic in the background.

“Hey, you want me to pick up a can of that sweet tea you like? I’m about ten minutes away. Walking over.”

“Yeah. That would be nice.” She cleared her throat, wanting to clarify what she meant. “Listen, I don’t want to do anything tonight, so—“

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m just coming over to keep the bad dreams away.”

The weather in DC was shit tonight—Freddie had deep suspicions that Wendy was only coming over to get out of the cold. But it would be nice to have someone there when her nightmares did start. Wendy was probably walking by the bodega that Freddie often bought her ginger ale from.

“Okay, well don’t get lost on the way,” Freddie teased, almost able to smile. 

“Got it, boss,” Wendy replied.

The call ended and Freddie took a few deep breaths before getting some money out for Wendy. Freddie peeled off a few hundred dollars off a roll of cash held together with a rubber band and lay them on the table by the door so that when Wendy came in, she could take it without having to ask for it. While the nature of their relationship didn’t bother Freddie in the slightest, being so emotionally raw meant she wasn’t really in the mood to be reminded that she had to buy the time of her ‘special lady’. After all that she’d been through, wasn’t she entitled to pretend that her comfort wasn’t by-the-hour?

She stuffed the roll of money back in the back of her file cabinet and returned to the bedroom to find a t-shirt. She couldn’t stand going topless anymore because of the scars on her stomach. Wendy wouldn’t say anything, would keep her looks to herself; Freddie knew that Wendy greatly enjoyed that she did most of her work topless, but those days were over now. She’d been researching with her lawyer to find out what kind of legal recourse she had against the asshole who did this to her—she wanted to sue and spend their money to fix what had happened her. Fuckers. Her eyes watered. 

When this went to court, she’d be first in line to testify against REDDRAGON and all those shitfucks involved. Reparations were in order and after she let Graham take his pound of flesh, she’d sure as hell come to collect as well. If she could be the one to provide the information that got them caught, she’d have the satisfaction of knowing she’d bested them and that Abigail Lecter had to authorise the book deal that would put her on the best seller list for months. She’d no longer be thought of as a ‘tabloid journalist’ but as an ‘investigative reporter’.

Settling herself down at her work desk located right by her bed, she began to run the recording of her reciting the Dragon’s manifesto through the audio software on her laptop. Time waited for no one and if she had to relive the moment over and over by listening to and analysing this shit in order to catch these assholes faster, well, that was just business. And Freddie was _all_ business. 

*****

Abigail sat at the harp, plucking the strings gently. When she was fourteen she’d begged her father to have lessons to learn how to play the harp, completely enthralled by a performance they’d watched in New York City one evening. And of course her father had indulged the whim, buying her a harp, drilling her with hours of practice at home until it had lost all of its fun and was simply another note in his little book of her accomplishments; she could play all of his favourite pieces by heart, though no longer had an interest in the instrument beyond that.

She closed her eyes, imagining her aunt’s footsteps, Will’s eyelashes when he slept, her father’s eyes, Mason Verger’s mutilated face, the way hands felt around her throat. The harp had been restrung this morning as well as her father’s harpsichord and she’d ventured upstairs to give it a try. The sunlight through the solarium’s had warmed the carpet and Applesauce was fast asleep in one of the sunny patches, her breathing soft and steady as her little paws occasionally twitched.She’d been told that Uncle Abel was in the gym, so it afforded her some time to herself and she’d decided to play around on the harp to pass the time.

But she wasn’t alone for very long as her father appeared in the doorway. “Hello, my princess.” His expression changed slightly. “Are you playing that song again?”

She pulled her hands away from the strings, letting them fall neatly on her thighs; she’d not even realised that she was playing the same video game song she’d played for Budge at the action for the Secret Service. Her father sat down at the bench in front of the harpsichord. 

“I didn’t say for you to stop playing.”

Her hands returned to strings and she resumed her playing. She’d once been able to play a video game at Marissa’s when she was nine (after which her father called Mrs Shurr to forbid Abigail from playing video games anymore) and there had been a harp piece that had stuck in her head. Perhaps it wasn’t as true to its original form, taking on new shapes and dimensions in the years since she’d first heard it. 

If she’d been alone, she might have hummed along with it, but instead she kept her voice to herself; while her father was brimming with unconditional love for her and she knew she was lucky enough that there were a few fields she excelled in,he still compared her to the rest of the people he admired. And at about the age of ten, it had become obvious that while he’d never say it, he didn’t particularly like the sound of her singing voice and rather than live with the knowledge that something she could help was disappointing to him, she decided to simply stop doing it all together. She finished the piece and dropped her hands down to her legs once more; her father smiled. 

“That was beautiful, Abigail.”

“Thank you.”

He offered a hand out to her and gratefully, _obediently_ , she removed herself from the seat and harp to follow him out of the room.

*****///*****

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Bob Costas did have pink eye for the duration of the Sochi Olympics


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between Feb 14-16, 2014

Unlike other holidays, Abigail had always liked St Valentine’s day: she dressed in reds and pinks, knew she’d receive lots of attention and sweet things, and her father always said ‘I love you’ without having to be prompted. But there was also a twinge of melancholy at memories of showering Marissa in attention—often bouquets of flowers, but sometimes limited to a stash of chocolate from a shop in New York. Marissa had always bought her something small in the form of jewellery, usually a piece that would match her own so everyone would know they were best friends. 

Trying not to mourn, she ordered an arrangement of roses and lilies from the flower department to be delivered to Marissa’s grave; she’d already handwritten a small poem onto a card to be placed with the bouquet, though it didn’t betray who the writer was lest it become someone’s grim piece of memorabilia. 

As she paused between picking questions that high school students nation wide had sent in for her to answer, she glanced up at Abel. There was a small dish of candy conversation hearts on her desk and she rummaged through them until she found one that said ‘U R SWEET’ and slid it across the desk to Uncle Abel. At the moment, he was on the phone, fact checking something with the Library of Congress; he glanced down at it and then smiled, looking back up at her.

She smiled at him in return and went back to work. He wasn’t Marissa, but sometimes life was about finding substitutes. 

*****

Hannibal held one of the tied flies that Will had made in demonstration for Abigail. A small midge that used horse hair and the smallest bits of Winston’s shed fur. It was one of the smaller, but more detailed flies he’d made and Hannibal had loved it from the moment he saw it; Will was not a man who was an artist in terms of paint or paper, but he was able to replicate details that others might not have known to create. 

He set the fly down on the altar, considering that he might never get to see Will reach his full artistic potential now. 

*****

The next thing Will knew he was sitting in a chair, hands tied behind his back, ankles to the chair legs. He blinked and found he was softly panting, his lips dry and head heavy. Trying to gather his bearings, he saw he was out of The Box and in the room that held it. He was also damp from head to toe and while he knew he’d been sweating from the encephalitis, this seemed a bit much. 

“Where am…” He was too tired to finish the question.

There was a voice to his right, from one of the men who was wearing an olive green ski mask to protect his identity. “Were you having a seizure?”

“Yes.” He nodded a bit belatedly, trying to process what had happened to him. “I lost time…How long have I been like this?”

“A few hours.” The voice this time came from the woman of the group and Will realised that there were two militia members in the room with him, not just one. “You were clawing at the box and wouldn’t stop, even after we kicked it a few times, so we stuck a hose in there with cold water to shut you up, but you still didn’t stop.” She shrugged. “So we thought maybe something was wrong, popped open the box to see what was going on, and found you unresponsive.” 

“My fingers feel pretty damaged.” He cringed as he tried moving them. 

The man nodded. “They are.”

The woman of the group leaned back against the work table. “We tried removing as many splinters as we could and iodined everything, then put bandages on them.” 

“What were you dreaming of?” the man asked. 

Will shook his head, trying to recall what his dreams had been of, squeezing his eyes shut as flashes of violence and screams filled his head. “Nothing. It’s just an empty space. Like my mind was on pause and you just pressed play.” His body shook for a moment with chills and he couldn’t tell if it was because he was sick or because he was still wet. “I need some aspirin. And I’m fucking freezing.”

There was a small crackling noise and the walkie-talkie on the man’s hip emitted a noise.

“ _Status?_ ” It was the Dragon’s voice and Will froze on instinct. 

The man brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “He just woke up. He still looks like shit, but he’s aware of his surroundings now.”

The Dragon’s reply was void of any emotion. “ _Good. Put him back in_.”

“Please…please just let me stretch my legs a little bit,” Will begged as the two radicals did as they were told.

The woman was kneeling beside him, clipping the zipties around his ankles. “Put your legs together,” she instructed as she pulled out three new ones that would be linked together to form the hobble. 

“Please…please just let me stretch my legs. I haven’t walked in weeks.” He looked between the two militia members, hoping to reason with them. “Please! You know I can’t run. Please just let me walk there and then you tie me up.”

The man and woman looked at one another, and the woman shrugged. “It’s just fifteen feet.”

The man conceded with the rolling of his eyes and pulled out his hand gun. Will was stood up from the chair and the man gestured with the weapon. “Move.”

He hobbled to The Box, feeling worthless that he’d not been able to protect himself, for showing such vulnerability that these people could exploit if they so wished. He was pushed in and the door was closed behind him, leaving him in the dark alone. As he sat in relative silence, contemplating how quick it would be for him to lose his mind irreversibly, he could tell that he was missing his ring finger fingernail and had torn off most of his index fingernail on his left hand and was definitely missing the fingernail on his middle finger on his right hand. The disgust and pain made his teeth chatter, trying to think of anything else but the visuals his mind was inventing for him of what the injuries would look like.

But at least this time they’d neglected to bind his ankles together, which meant his legs had relief from the usual position he’d been forced to adopt while staying in this Box.

He wanted Hannibal to shush him and promise that everything would be all better very soon, that he just needed a little bed rest and some medicine and some warm chicken soup. Fuck, he’d even eat the soup if there were human remains in it. Wouldn’t Hannibal be amused?

*****

She and her father sat in his bedroom in the armchairs in front of the fireplace, reading books in comfortable silence. For the most part, the evening had been quiet and uneventful; nothing new in the search for Will and she’d been able to find the rare peace of mind not to drive herself into an anxious mess over it.

“How would you have spent today if Will was here?” she asked, setting her book in her lap for a moment. 

He didn’t look up from his book. “I would have cooked dinner for the two of you and then given him too much wine so he wouldn’t have had any interest in keeping me up.”

There was a small question in the shape of a fissure that had grown within her; she recalled how Will had once told her that it wasn’t normal to be so open with her father about questions regarding sex and even though she was confident that was she was about to ask was possibly even too taboo for him, but she was willing to see if she could prove Will wrong.

“Have…”

She had no idea how to phrase something so delicate. Her hesitation caused him to look up from his book. 

“Yes, Abigail?”

“Have you ever wished Will was dead when you touched him?” She decided that was the safest way to broach the question she really wanted to ask.

“Are you asking if I’ve ever been aroused at the thought of Will’s death and how I might be able to take advantage of his body?”

She nodded.

“No, I have not.” 

She returned her attention back to her book. “Oh, just curious.” 

But it was all too obvious that he understood what it was that she was really asking and he gave her a searching look; she attempted to clear her mind of any thoughts that he might be able to read on her face, that she thought those things about Marissa often enough to know that it was something she wanted desperately. 

He shut his book, page bookmarked with one of his fingers and in a clinical voice he asked, “Do you have those feelings about people, Abigail?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. No, that’s how weirdos think. Like John Wayne Gacy.”

“It is perfectly normal—“

“No, it’s not and I don’t think like that at all.” She wasn’t going to apologise for interrupting, even though it was unspeakably rude, but she refused to allow him to entrap her in a humiliating and bizarre confession. 

He was quiet, not blinking. “Very well.” 

She’d protested too much and that only made her look more guilty and she swallowed nervously—her secret was out and no doubt something her father would want to know _everything_ about, which was simply unbearable to think about. Mostly because she knew it was a very, very dark taboo to covet, and also because she didn’t want to give him any more of Marissa than she had to. 

“I think I’ll go check on Uncle Gideon,” she said a bit too loudly as she stood from her chair. 

His eyes revealed no emotions. “Goodnight, Abigail.”

“Goodnight. I love you.”

She made her way to the third floor of the Residence quickly, trying to outrun her anxiety. 

“Hello, Abigail. Please, come in. I was just making Swiss Miss—do you want some?” Abel asked when he answered her polite knock on the door.

She nodded as she entered the room. “Please.”

Abel had commandeered an electric kettle for his room and he brought a second mug from the serving tray on his dresser to set on a coaster by the kettle. He was making the hot chocolate with heated water, which made her think of Will.

“Would you like to tell me what’s bothering you?” he asked. 

“Pardon?”

He smiled at her. “You wouldn’t show up at nearly ten unless something was on your mind.”

“Um…” she hadn’t really considered that he could confront her and she sighed. “I really don’t want to. It’s one of those things that I really don’t want to think about.”

“I see.”

“I asked my dad a stupid question,” she finally admitted.

He nodded as though he understood. “Is he upset with you?”

“No. Probably worried.”

“Are you all right? You’re not thinking of hurting yourself, are you?”

“What—no!” How had he gotten that idea?

He gestured to her. “I’ve seen your hand. That you had a scar and that it was reopened recently…”

“This was something that we gave ourselves—me, Daddy, and Will,” she explained. “I just thought that mine hadn’t scarred as well as it should have and with Will gone, I couldn’t bear the thought that it might fade away.”

“Well, that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think? Giving yourself scars? Couldn’t you all just get matching watches? Or bracelets of some sort?”

She waved her hand dismissively—whoever heard of giving someone a _watch_ for becoming family? “Those things can be lost. We wanted something that could never be taken from us.” 

He handed her a mug of hot chocolate. “Well, you shouldn’t cut it anymore. People will start to talk and wonder.”

She knew he was right, but when she returned to her room for the night, she lie in bed and picked at the wound, wanting it to be _real_ forever…

*****

Will knew he was sick in a very bad sort of way; he made no effort to drink any of the water he’d been given for the day, couldn’t find it in himself to be thirsty. The word ‘listless’ kept coming to mind and he leaned his body against the rough wood of The Box, resting his head against the peeling paint. He felt the way termite-riddle wood existed—functional to the extent that he had to hope nothing heavy touched him, the majority of his being cored out and hollow. Rest came easier though and he found himself able to drift away to thoughts of himself on the beach with Abigail, tossing a stick to Winston, who ran in the surf. The air off the ocean was blowing Abigail’s hair up like strands of spider silk and his own curls kept getting in his eyes. The sun was bright, washing out the colours of the sand, water, and sky, and he threw the stick for Winston again. Will felt no heat from the sun and he couldn’t remember if he or Abigail had said a word.

There was a large sculpture ahead of them just above the tideline and Winston forgot the stick to run to it. As Will and Abigail got closer, Will realised it was a tower of human bodies, all chopped and contorted so that it formed a symmetrical obelus of death. Some of the bodies were heavily decayed, mostly skeletal, but others were fresher the higher up the structure. 

Abigail stood in awe of it, walking around it slowly as she studied her work, of the things she’d done with her father. Will could see that the tower wasn’t complete, that soon, there would be more bodies to add to the top at a later date, because why would they stop killing? It made them feel like gods and who in their right mind would give up that kind of power? This was their legacy and it wasn’t over. The tide began to pull back, the sea disappearing and an inhuman wail began to rise, something deep within the ocean floor that blossomed into his marrow until he was ready to scream—

He startled awake, breathing heavy. He was sitting in a chair now, no longer in The Box, but outside in the cement lined bunker or basement or wherever he’d been taken. Groggy and disoriented, he tried to appraise his surroundings, but ended up staring at his left arm. A bag of fluid was connected to a long needle by a plastic tube. The needle had been placed under his skin and taped in place. Field medicine. There was a lump on his left arm where the needle had been inserted, about the size of his palm and raised about a half an inch. He looked at it, trying to get his eyes to focus on what he seeing.

“What are you doing?” he asked once he managed to figure out where one of the militia members was standing. 

“Have to keep you alive,” the man commented casually. “Found you close to unresponsive. Thought it would be in our best interests to keep the assets alive.”

Will wondered if it was rude of him to not say ‘thank you’. This man was beginning to doubt the cause, beginning to see that the Dragon was creating a suicide mission, not a revolution. 

Will’s head drooped and he realised his skull felt heavy, which caused him to inhale sharply, eyes squeezing shut. Part of him wished he’d just die, partially to piss off the Dragon and partially to spare himself anymore pain. 

“I need my medicine,” he mumbled and then willed himself to blackout again.

*****

Hannibal was reviewing a paper he’d finished typing on the computer in Will’s office, sitting comfortably in the leather office chair; it no longer smelt of Will. He’d left the office door partially open to hear anyone who was approaching and as he read over the second to last page of the paper, he heard footsteps coming from the Oval Office.

Jack peeked his head in and asked, “Busy?”

Hannibal knew from the other man’s tone that he wouldn’t allow Hannibal to send him away, so he feigned cordiality. “I am finishing a paper. But you may come in, of course.”

“Is that the Ukraine paperwork?”

“No. It is a medical paper I’ve written.”

Jack came around the side of the desk to look at the screen, squinting slightly without his glasses. “You’ve been writing medical papers?”

Hannibal watched as Jack studied the document in interest. “I have nearly a dozen that are waiting to be finished. I merely have to dedicate the time to them.”

Jack raised an eyebrow and looked back at him. “So you want to have this published?”

“I shall submit it to my alma mater in the morning.” 

Jack nodded and Hannibal knew he was pleased at representing a politician who was so accomplished. 

“You should get some rest, Hannibal,” he advised.

“As should you, Jack.”

Jack nodded as though he would. “Goodnight.”

Hannibal, who had no intention of getting rest tonight either, bid him farewell. “Goodnight, Jack.”

*****

There were lights flashing in the distance and Will shaded his sleepy eyes. He was barefoot and there was a chill in the air, and as he stepped forward, he felt as though something was familiar about it. He…was in Wolf Trap. Wolf Trap? When had he gotten here?

The car with the flashing lights had rolled to a slow stop in front of him and he realised it was one of the Wolf Trap sheriff units that patrolled the area. He wondered if they were looking for someone trespassing in the woods surrounding their township, if maybe Lounds had been bothering the local population for stories about him, or if they were just out looking for teenagers doing dumb things like drinking alcohol they took out of the house or smoking pot they’d bought out behind the gas station on the south end of town.

He tried to shield his eyes from the light, careful to blink out ‘one-eight-seven’ each time he squinted. The two officers got out of the car, one wearing his glasses even though it was the dead of night. 

“Mr Graham,” the driver greeted. 

“Hello,” he said cautiously.

“Do you know where you are?” the deputy asked.

“I’m in Wolf Trap.” The stars above him were missing. “I was taken—“

The deputy shook his head. “No, you were sleep walking. That yours?”

He indicated to Will’s left side and Will turned to see Winston looking up at him curiously. “Where did you come from?” he asked softly. 

“Maybe he came along to make sure you were safe,” the officer with the sunglasses on suggested. 

Will stood still, trying to remember what it was he was doing. The wind blew through the trees, cool and signaling the arrival of winter. There was something important he needed to tell them, something about himself…

“I need to call Hannibal. I was kidnapped by some men.”

The deputy shook his head. “No, you were sleep walking.” He shined his flashlight in Will’s face, blinding him. “You’ve lost time. Do you know where you are?”

Will tried to block the light with his fingers, but it didn’t seem to be very effective. “Wolf Trap.”

“Mmhmm.” He lowered the flashlight. “And can you tell me where you are?”

Will frowned, lowering his hands. “Wolf Trap. This is Wolf Trap.” 

“How about now?”

“Wolf Trap. Why do you keep asking me that?” he asked, his voice starting to rise. 

The deputy took out his report log to write in. “How does that make you feel?”

Will choked, his throat altogether too dry and too tight. Was it an allergic reaction? Winston was growling and when Will looked down at him, he saw the dog’s eyes had turned a milky white and he had blood across his muzzle. Will flinched and Winston turned his attention to him and Will took a step back.

“It’s okay boy. It’s just me,” he said in a calm and comforting voice. “Not going to hurt you.”

There was a sniper in the trees, radioing in to the White House. “This is Red Team, we have a clear line to target.”

Will saw the sighting light on his chest and he looked helplessly at the deputy. “Please—I—I don’t know where I am. I thought I was in Wolf Trap.” Not knowing what else to do, he raised his hands. “I surrender. I surrender.”

Like eyes in the dark, Will caught glimpses of the lens reflections of every high powered rifle amongst the trees and he knew he was surrounded. 

The cop with the aviators lifted them off his eyes and Will saw that he was in fact Brian Zeller. “I can’t get involved. I’m under investigation for shooting you.”

Will shook like a leaf.

There was a car parked on the side of the road a quarter of a mile away, high beams on like a beacon and a figure stood by the open door. Rain was falling in that space directly and it took Will a second to recognise the profile of the car as belonging to a Bentley, which meant the person standing beside it in the rain was Hannibal. 

“Hannibal?” he asked as he approached it. 

Hannibal stood silently: handsome, he was dressed warmly for the weather and Will was relieved to know that if he stood in the rain, too, his sweat would be washed away. He wanted to feel clean. 

“Please. Please take me home,” he begged and Hannibal held open his arms. 

“I am your home, William. I am the only home you’ll ever know.”

Will tucked himself close to the other man, needing someone else to be strong for him. “Please. I just want to go home.”

“I’m here.” 

Hannibal’s hands were bloody well past the wrists and Will rubbed at them quickly with the ends of Hannibal’s scarf, not understanding why the pouring rain wasn’t washing any of it away.

“They might think you’re a serial killer,” he whispered, feeling pained that the world was so dangerous for them both.

“Serial killers do, on a small scale, what governments do on a large one.” Hannibal cupped Will’s face between his hands, forcing him to make eye contact. “They simply see me as the President, Will. My dear, sweet Will.” 

A large BlackHawk helicopter was circling the area and landed in the field next to the road. Will loosened his hold around Hannibal after seeing the Presidential seal on the side of the aircraft; he started to follow after Hannibal who began to walk out to the helicopter, but Hannibal placed a gloved hand on his chest. 

“No. You shall stay here.”

Will felt acute distress where Hannibal’s hand touched him and the painful knot of tears in his throat. “I need to go with you—I was kidnapped and I don’t know where I am.”

“Will, if I take you now, then what I am about to do next will be considered premeditated murder.” Hannibal gave him a politician’s smile and kissed his cheek gently. “How will I get reelected?” 

The police officers and snipers began to applaud as Hannibal walked out to the waiting helicopter; he gave a sharp whistle and Winston stopped growling and loped over to him, his tongue lolling out and tail wagging.

“Please! Please, you can’t leave me! I don’t know where I am!” Will screamed frantically after him. His feet wouldn’t lift from the pavement. 

“Draw a clock for me,” Hannibal called after him as he allowed Winston to hop up into the helicopter before him.

“Hannibal! Hannibal, help me! Help me!” he screamed. 

*****

When he was next taken out to be hosed down, Will made a request, knowing he had nothing left to lose. 

“I need a pencil and paper.”

The Dragon was there and the two man with him turned to their superior for guidance. “What for?”

“I need to draw a clock,” Will told them. 

The Dragon’s eyebrows raised behind his mask. “Why?”

“It’s an evaluation test. I draw out a clock with the current time and then someone who’s not ill looks at it and—no, a _doctor_ can look at it and tell how sick I am,” he specified. “I’m not—I’m not trying to do anything sinister. I just need to know how sick I am.”

The Dragon was quiet for a moment, weighing the statement and then turned to his men. “Get him a marker and a piece of paper.” He looked back at Will. “We’ll know how ill you are in a minute, won’t we?”

Will was handed a sharpie and a nationwide advert for JCPenny’s—it said he should hurry to a store or online in order to get something in time for Valentine’s Day. He didn’t know what to make of that information.

“What time is it?” he asked, taking the lid off the sharpie.

“Why do you need to know that?” the Dragon asked. 

“Just give me a time—I just have to draw the hands on the clock.”

“We will pretend that it’s 3:47,” the Dragon told him and Will could tell that it must really be early morning. When had his empathy ever lied?

Will drew it out, carefully concentrating on making it legible over the bright colours of the advert. 3:47. He couldn’t remember what hand pointed to AM verses PM, so he made an educated guess. 

Finished, he handed it over to the Dragon, allowing the sharpie to be pulled out of his hand. “Here.”

The Short Man leaned in to catch a glimpse of the drawing. “Whoa.”

“How far off is it?” Will asked, needing to know how well this gauge had worked. 

The Dragon’s eyes narrowed and then he crumpled the paper in his hand. “The problem is not what you’ve drawn, Graham. But that we can’t trust you to tell the truth. Anyone could fake a bad drawing.”

“I need my medication or I am going to die. I will get irreparable brain damage and die,” he insisted. 

“That may be, but Lecter is to blame for you not getting it.”

Will was never going to blame Hannibal for how things were unfolding—leaders weren’t allowed to give into their adversaries. “He’s not going to give in. Please—just take what he’s given you so far and let me go.”

“Then that defeats the purpose, Mr Graham. We aren’t going to back down because you might die. Blood must be spilled on the tree of liberty from time to time. That’s how you build a good country.”

He shook his head in disbelief, giving himself vertigo. “You really think that killing me will do that?”

“It might.”

Will longed to say that the Chesapeake Ripper was the last person that anyone should anger. “Why would you want to piss off Hannibal the Cannibal?”

“He is no man eater. A Dragon is a man eater, Mr Graham and that is what I am. The Dragon.”

“You underestimate what that fucking psychopath is willing to do,” Will assured him.

“You think he’s crazy? He is a politician.”

“You _admire_ him,” Will accused.

“Naturally. How could one not admire their opponent? He and I were born to be opposites, but that meant he and I were born equally matched. To the victor will go the spoils.”

“Hannibal isn’t going to play by any rules of war.”

“Neither will I.” The Dragon smiled behind his mask and Will saw his teeth were no longer hideous and gnarled, but straight and even, “Even though he has embarrassed you in front of the nation for what you did to his daughter, you still speak about him with respect. Because when you meet beings like us, you rightfully tremble before us.” The Dragon’s smile faded and was replaced by the cold vacancy of emotion that Will had come to hate. “Clean him off.”

Will was dragged off to the bathroom without any further comment from the Dragon. The ziptie handcuffs around his wrists were ziptied in the middle to one of the safety rails; he dreaded the thought of going back to The Box wet and cold.Will shivered and tried to protect his face as the hose sprayed him off; gasping at the shock of being hit by cold water, he began screaming as he fought the panic rising in him that he was going to drown. He was going to just tilt back and drown—he couldn’t stop the water running down his face—oh god, he was going to drown and he couldn’t get free because his hands were bound—

Something hit him hard across the back of his head and the world went dark.

*****///*****

 

 


	43. Chapter Forty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place on Feb 17, 2014

Beverly thought better than to say ‘Happy President’s Day, Mr President’, because wasn’t it enough for him to know as President, he wasn’t able to rescue his boyfriend? She knew if she was President and she’d failed so drastically, she’d not want to hear someone say that. The morning had been mostly uneventful other than a report of some dumb frat-hopeful who’d thrown a shoe over the White House fence and was then tackled by plain clothes agents who were being groomed for regular duty within the Uniformed Division. The kid’s lawyer dad had already threatened to sue the Secret Service for the black eye his son had received being thrown to the ground and everyone in the office was having a good laugh over that. 

She was stood by the door that led into Oval Office’s secretarial collective, her stance at ease as she monitored the placidness of the room. The President was typing and making notes at his desk and his assistant was seated across from him, making careful notes in his agenda book and on her phone. 

“Paper submitted, President Lecter. They said they’ll let us know at the end of the week when the board will convene to publish it,” Mapp said to him, looking up from her phone.

He looked up from his laptop screen. “Thank you, Miss Mapp.”

Later in the evening, Lecter was expected to attend a dinner in which he would present the National Medal of Arts and National Humanities Medal to twenty recipients at the Washington Hilton, the hotel traditionally used for the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. While the White House’s own East Room would normally have been used for such an affair, the President had requested months ago that he be provided more opportunity to travel within the city and this was one of the requested that had been honoured. Beverly, along with most of the other agents, would prefer Lecter to remain in the safe space of the White House, but what the President wanted, the President _got_. 

Beverly thought that if the door leading out to the hallway was open, she’d probably be able to see Saul in the Roosevelt Room.

*****

Will was feeling desperate and scared. He was having a hard time focusing his mind, but he knew if he stayed in this place one more day, he was going to die in this box; he had never considered himself to be a fighter, but he had to fight for his life because no one else was going to be doing it for him. Formulating a plan had taken a better part of the night, but he was certain that he had enough remaining facilities to pull it off.

There would be at least two vehicles that this militia was using and he was certain that they would have their keys left in them so that it was never a fight to find a set. All he had to do was get to one of the vehicles and he’d be free. At this point, his face had probably been on the news regularly enough that where ever he ended up, someone would recognise him if he told them his name. Or maybe he’d run into a cop and he could wave them down for help. As long as he could get to a truck or jeep, he’d be okay—that was all that mattered. Just drive until he was away from this fucking place and never look back.

He could hear footsteps approaching The Box and then the small jingle of keys, the cue that someone had come for him. Will forced a blank look on his face and didn’t blink or flinch when the light from the room came into his face as the door was opened. It was a younger man who’d come to take him out and Will was a little surprised that once again there was only one person sent to get him; obviously the general consensus was that Will wasn’t enough of a physical threat to warrant backup anymore. That meant they were getting lazy and sloppy, two attributes that were going to work in Will’s favour today. 

“Okay, out.” The younger man was pointing a gun at Will, though he didn’t respond. “Hey, I told you to get out.” The man prodded him in the shoulder a few times and Will allowed himself to sway a bit with each movement; he knew he was successful when the man gave a very dejected, “Oh goddamnit.”

Will was slightly resistant of being dragged out, but not enough to indicate any awareness, just that his body was attempting to maintain balance. He allowed his eyes to glaze over as he hobbled along, hoping that he wasn’t hallucinating, because everything always felt so real. He allowed himself to be led to the room, prodded along and when he reached the bathroom the opportunity was right for ambush.

Will grabbed the man on the back of the head and smashed his face into the mirror above the sink; the man fell to the ground and while Will didn’t want to, there was no way he could allow this man to live. He had no idea if this man would stay out for five minutes or five hours—either way his presence was a threat to Will’s freedom. 

“Search him.” Will looked up, startled, and there stood Hannibal. “Search him for weapons and we’ll drag him to The Box to hide the body.”

Will stared at Hannibal, but found himself nodding and did as he was told. There was a bowie knife on the man and before Will knew it, he was turning to look at Hannibal for approval. Hannibal nodded once, an adoring smile on his face that made the edges around his eyes crinkle. Will cut his zipties apart and slipping his arms under the man’s armpits, Will dragged his limp body back to The Box and as he shoved him into the small space, Will stabbed the knife into the man’s thigh. When the blade was removed, blood began to pour out of the wound at an alarming rate; he’d made contact with the artery in the man’s leg and there was no doubt that he’d bleed out within a few minutes at most. Will felt Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder and as he turned, he found he was shaking.

“We need to go, Will. Take the knife and his walkie-talkie. We need to monitor their activity.” 

“Right,” Will murmured.

Will began to pace around the room, energy running high through him and he spotted a bottle of water set on a table; overwhelmed with the ability to get water, he hurried over to it and drank it down in a few gulps, panting when he was finished. Dropping the bottle to the floor, he went back over to The Box. 

“Look for a cellphone, Will,” Hannibal instructed.

Will did as he was told and patted the man down; he located one in the man’s vest and quickly dialed a phone number he had memorised by heart. 

*****

Beverly had a mild case of indigestion, having consumed walnuts accidentally over lunch, and now her stomach was settling after rioting for a few hours. It had meant she’d been forced to sign off of protective detail duty for the rest of the day, and sat across a desk from Zeller, working on daily observation logs that were due at the end of her work shift. Boring work, but better than the travel expense reports from field agents that Zeller was working on. 

On her side of the desk, her phone buzzed softly on the pressed wood and she glanced down at it. “Unknown number.”

Zeller shrugged. “Ignore it.”

She set the phone back down on her desk and continued typing, clicking into a new field on the document’s table when her phone rang a second time. Same ‘unknown’ and Zeller smirked as she pressed ignore a second time. Almost immediately it began ringing again, and she and Zeller made faces at each other, something both a smirk and annoyed disbelief. She punched the ‘ignore’ button with her index finger and rolled her eyes dramatically. But the phone just began buzzing again, same weird number she’d never seen before and definitely wasn’t an area code she recognised. 

“This guy just isn’t giving up.” Just to let whoever it was know that she wasn’t happy to be bothered, she gave a very curt, “ _Hello_?” as she answered it. Zeller smirked at her.

“Beverly, this is Will Graham.”

She felt the blood run from her face and snapped her fingers at Zeller to pay attention. “Will, where are you?”

“I’m…I don’t really know.” He sounded out of breath.

She nodded and stood up from her desk, motioning for Zeller to stand as well. “Okay, hold on and I’m going to have Zee ping your location.”

He nodded and announced loudly to the room, “This is not a drill! Will Graham’s on the line right now! Drop what you’re going and get ready to work!”

Papers fell to the ground, chairs were knocked over in the scramble to get closer to Beverly and Zee’s shared desk, everyone wanting to do their part to get the missing man back; Beverly waved her hand around, trying to direct people wordlessly for what they could do to help her.

Will’s voice came out as a hissing whisper. “Beverly, these men are armed and preparing for a full scale assault on whoever comes after them.”

“We’re contacting all Secret Service offices right now—everyone’s going to be prepared in tactical gear. Don’t you worry about us—we’re not going in blind.”  

One of the other agents gave her a thumbs up as he got on the phone to make the call that would mobilise all offices that something Top Priority was occurring.

“There are nine that I’m aware of—the main guy is an absolute sociopath. He’s going to want to take out as many people as possible,” Will told her. “The only reason he’s kept me alive is because he’s a sadist and liked having someone to torture and keep in a _box_.”

His voice was so tinny that she was afraid that if she put it on speakerphone, she’d be completely unable to understand him in the expanse of the Secret Service office, so she held it tight to her ear and prayed that he didn’t walk into an area without service.

“I’ll have you on a map in a second, Graham. I can lead you out of there,” she promised.

“I need to figure out how to get out of this building. But…”

“What’s wrong?” She frowned. “You unstable?”

“Yes.”

Shit, that wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear, but she needed to keep him calm, because even if she wasn’t there, he was still her responsibility to keep safe. “Okay, can you keep this phone to your ear?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to lead you out of here and the calvary is coming, okay?”

“Come on—stay close.”

“Are you with someone?” She felt her heart seize—was there someone else who had been taken hostage? She couldn’t tell him to ditch that person—he had too many morals to do that.

She wasn’t prepared for what he told her. “Hannibal’s here.”

She made a face and everyone stared at her on bated breath. She had no idea how to respond for a moment and so she just agreed with him. “Okay.” Now was not the time to argue his sanity with him, she just needed to have his back through all of this. “Okay, tell the President that he needs to remain quiet and stay low. You’re covering for two, got it?”

Zeller made a face at her of absolute bewilderment and she gave a helpless shrug. 

“I have a gun,” Will said, his voice almost angry.

“Great. Shoot anyone who gets in your way, understand? Do NOT hesitate,” she ordered him.

“I got it.” There was silence and then Will said, “Of course. I love you. No one’s… perfect.”

Fairly confident that Will wasn’t talking to her, she decided it was best to clarify. “Are you talking with the President, Will?”

“Yes.”

She swallowed hard and ignored the looks that the rest of the agents were giving her. “Okay, both of you need to stay out of sight, understand?”

“Yes.”

“Will, are you hurt?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll have a medical unit on the way to assess you.” God, why couldn’t hostage situations be easy! “Do you have any idea where you might be?”

He was quiet and as she was about to ask if he’d heard her, he said, “I can smell the sea.”

“Yeah? You think you might be by the coast?” God help them if he was on a boat. Hostage situations on the sea never went well. 

“Maybe.” His breath shook. “I don’t know. I might be hallucinating it.”

“That’s okay, Will,” she reassured. “We’re going to find you in a few minutes by the—“ Suddenly a large satellite map popped up on the large screen on the wall. “Will, you’re in Florida!”

“Florida?” He sounded as surprised as she was. 

“Yes! And you’re on one of the islands!” She had never felt such relief in her whole life. “I’ve got you on satellite map, Will! I’m having them drop in infared and I’ll try to find you—okay do the YMCA.”

“What?”

“Do the YMCA so I can see which little hot tamale you are.”

Quietly, he semi-sang, “Y, M, C—“

She scanned the map and one of the baby agents pointed up to his figure before she spotted him herself. “Got you! Wave to me!”

The little figure waved a hand. “Satisfied?”

“Entirely.” He seemed to be in a good location, away from the other figures that were now moving around a bit more—she hoped none of the REDDRAGON militia had been alerted to Will’s escape. “Okay, can you stay where you are?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Shit. I’ve got the calvary coming, Will. I promise. You’re not going to be alone. They’re mobilising the team right now.”

He sounded so desperate. “I don’t have time. There’s no way you can get a team out here in time before they realise I’m out.” 

“Will, can you please stay put?” she asked—while she believed that he might be able to get himself to safety, the more she listened to him and from what she was viewing on the map concerned her greatly. 

“I’ve got to get out of here.” 

“Will, there are other people around you—“

“I know. I’ve got to go.”

“No, Will—“

“It’s Hannibal. He wants me to leave.”

“Will, don’t. You’re in danger—“ The phone went dead and she turned to look helplessly at the other agents. “We need to get him out, now. He’s hallucinating.”

*****

“Stay behind me. I’m not going to get blamed for letting the President get hurt,” Will hissed as he let the phone fall to the ground and put all of his focus back on his surroundings. 

Hannibal tsked disapprovingly. “I can take care of myself, Will.”

“Just shut up.”

“At least Agent Brown was able to teach you how to handle a firearm before you were kidnapped,” Hannibal said drily as he followed behind him. 

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Mr President?” Will peeked around the corner quickly, fast enough that he could catch a glimpse of his surroundings and hopefully not be seen by others. 

“You know as well as I that Agent Brown is not someone I’d be jealous of.” 

Will smirked, but led them both to the door without further comment; knife braced in his hand for when he opened the door, in the event someone was on the other side and then he could stab them, which meant he needed to have a good grip on the handle, because if he didn’t, he could picture his arm moving sluggishly and the blade bouncing off a person’s body and then they’d be able to disarm him, wouldn’t they and how could he protect—

“Oh god.” 

He opened the door and while there was no one on the other side, the hallway it was connected to began to stretch out and Will held still, hoping it would stop. Or maybe he needed to run through it as fast as possible to reach the end before it became too long to cross. Hannibal touched his wrist lightly.

“Patience, Will.” He sniffed the air. “Someone is approaching.”

Will hid back behind the doorway and waited quietly as he prepared for whomever it was approaching. Will stabbed the man in the back of the neck as he walked past him; the man stumbled around, letting out a sharp noise as he tried to reach for his gun, but Will had him off-balance and they scuffled briefly before Will managed to pin him down and stab him in the chest.

“Shit!” Will hissed. 

Hannibal ran down the corridor to scout as Will stabbed the man’s throat another time to stop him from shouting.

“He has a gun—take it!” Hannibal ordered as he looked around the corner carefully. “They’ve heard. Get the gun and square your shoulder as you’ve been taught.”

“Get back over here and hide!” he hissed. 

“They will clear the hall first. Be prepared to shoot.”

Will’s first shot managed to hit the man squarely in the face and as he fell to the ground, Will heard the other man cursing and talking into his walkie-talkie.

“Dolarhyde! Graham’s out!”

Dolarhyde. Finally, Will had a name for the Dragon, the sonofabitch who’d orchestrated this whole thing.

“We must ambush him while he tries to recover his comrade’s body!” Hannibal instructed and Will darted over to the corner.

It took three shots, but finally the other man stopped moving. One bullet had grazed the top of the man’s shoulder and had ricocheted towards the ceiling. 

“Oh, fuck.” Will wasn’t meant to be doing this—despite what Hannibal seemed to think of him, he wasn’t a killer. Pulling the trigger wasn’t the hard part—it was having to look at a body after the smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils.

“They know I’m out now,” he said, looking at Hannibal as his chest filled with the weight of worry.

“Do not worry—Agent Katz has help on the way. She won’t leave you here,” Hannibal reminded. 

They continued to move down the hallway, Will holding the gun in front of him defensively. Up a set of stairs—yes, it made sense that he’d been held underground. No one could accidentally come across him and he was protected at the heart of this ant’s nest. He emerged in an old, decrepit building. Peeling paint, warping wood, broken glass—this was the only barrier between him and captivity. Oh god—he could hear the ocean. The smell of salt embraced him like an old friend and he nearly cried at the feeling of relief that salvation was right through that door. There was a hole in the ceiling and moonlight poured through the way water fell through a sieve. 

Francis Dolarhyde stepped out of the shadows. 

Will raised the gun once more. His hands were shaking and he couldn’t remember how to square his shoulders properly to make sure his aim would be true, but he wasn’t going to hesitate to shoot this sonofabitch who’d wanted to kidnap Abigail, who’d tortured him. Dolarhyde flinched as Will pulled the trigger, but then smiled when Will pulled it a few more times and still nothing happened.

“You’re out of bullets, Mr Graham.”

“Oh damnit—“

There was a large Ka-Bar in Dolarhyde’s hand and Will was suddenly flooded with images of Abigail’s biological dad, her _murderer_ , slitting her throat and he turned his head from side to side, looking for anything here in the dark to fight with, anything that might be an improvised weapon as he felt the gun slip from his sweaty palms. But Dolarhyde wasn’t going to wait and charged at Will like a linebacker; Will was thrown onto his back, all the air knocked out of his lungs. Momentarily stunned, Will found himself pinned to the squeaking floorboards with Dolarhyde’s knees; he inhaled sharply and began to grasp around at the wall behind him as Dolarhyde raised the knife high, grunting as he brought it down. The blade missed Will’s eye and crunched deep into his cheek; pain bloomed in Will’s face and he let out a wet noise as he felt sliver of the blade on the roof of his mouth with his tongue, now cut as well. Dolarhyde rocked forward and put his weight on the handle to shove it through Will’s head. Will’s left hand finally made contact with something and he swung it down at Dolarhyde—

Who jerked back and howled in pain. Will had grabbed a fishing rod that had large hooks on it, which had caught Dolarhyde in the side of the face and tore. Now that the other man was off balance, Will shoved his body up and was able to knock him off. Scrambling to his feet, Will located a large cinder block on the floor and he snatched it up with both hands, spinning around and bringing it against the side of Dolarhyde’s face. The Dragon fell to the floor and Will brought the cinder block down on the back of Dolarhyde’s skull. 

Will panted.

Dolarhyde didn’t move anymore.

“Hannibal?” he hissed, a large spew of blood and spit exiting his mouth. “ _Hannibal_?”

Fuck, how was he going to get Hannibal back to him? Lure him? Lure him! Will looked back down at Dolarhyde and rolled him over. He saw it—a second knife—and tore it from Dolarhyde’s waistband. He didn’t know much about human anatomy, but where there was a human being butchered, Hannibal was sure to show. 

Garrett Jacob Hobbs stood in the corner of the room, sallow and leering. 

“Take his kidney,” he whispered, wearing bloody hunting clothing.

“Why?” Will asked. 

“Abigail is hungry,” Hobbs explained.

Will glanced up at the moon in the sky. Yes, it was nighttime and she might not have had dinner. It would be good to bring her something, even if it wasn’t something he’d eat himself. He was her father now.

“You’re her father now,” Hobbs echoed, crawling across the room to inspect the body of Dolarhyde.

Will slipped the organ into the pocket of his sweatpants. He could hear Hobbs feasting messily on Dolarhyde now and Will ran towards the door furthest from them both—

He ran across the sands, stumbling as choked on blood and tried to navigate where he was going—the large handle of the knife was blocking what his left eye could and couldn’t see and he swung his head around wildly, trying to compensate for his limited vision; he knew enough about first aid not to pull it out—that was a quick way to bleed to death or create further injury. 

The ocean.

The ocean was ahead of him and he could hear gunfire and shouting behind him, could smell something burning behind him, but if he could just reach the sea, he’d be fine. Hannibal would have a boat waiting for him, a light on still waters. The way he’d made the White House a boat. The only boat. Was it a boat? A house boat? He shook his head, suddenly dizzy. He snorted out through his nose to push out all the blood pooled in his sinuses, and let out a shriek at the pain that almost caused him to pass out. 

Get to the ocean.

Hannibal had a house on the beach—if he just kept running along the coast, he’d find it soon enough. They’d spent the summer at the house and they had a daughter there and then Hannibal had made him give all his dogs away—Will let out a sob—and the Kennedys were all there, like some weird political dynasty convention. Up the beach or down the beach, maybe if he looked down at the waves he’d know what direction to go. He fell to his knees and then onto his face and stomach as intense vertigo overtook him. The jolt of his head hitting sand made him feel as though all of his teeth were loose. 

“Have you ever looked at blood in the moonlight, Will? It looks quite black…”

Will was certain that Hannibal’s voice had come from the ocean. 

“Am I going to die?” he asked, mumbling. When he received no response he called out a little louder, “Hannibal?”

Will crawled across the sand, feeling it bunching under his fingers because it was wet from the surf. Sweat and blood were in his eyes and every time he tried to wipe it away, he could feel the sand particles rubbing into the wounds on his face. The Ka-Bar was still deep in his face and his tongue kept running over the small bit of blade that had pierced his hard palette. 

He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep. If he could get to Hannibal, make sure he was safe, then he could close his eyes and rest. Oh god, was he dying? His legs jerked belatedly at the thought of Hobbs creeping across the sand to come eat him, too. Hobbs had been killing men, trying to absorb their powers through the sympathetic magic of cannibalising them. It wouldn’t be far fetched that he’d hunt Will to make himself stronger to find Abigail. 

Spread out on the sand and listening to the sound of gunfire at the compound behind him, he tried to force blood out of his sinuses. He could feel the tears rolling down into the sand beneath him. His tongue was touching sand, which seemed very strange because his tongue was also touching most of his teeth. There was a hole in his mouth and it wasn’t from his open lips.

_‘People cry for their mothers and I’m crying for a cannibalistic serial killer to come find me.’_

“Hannibal…” his hand flexed and he felt himself being rolled over.

Two very large figures were standing over him; they were dressed in black and both had various olive and black streaks across their faces, which was confusing before Will realised it was camouflage paint. He blinked, trying to get the blood out of his left eye and tried to bring a hand up to his face, but the men pointed their rifles in his face.

“Don’t move,” one of the men ordered sternly as the other spoke to seemingly no one.

“This is Bravo Kilo-Five—I’ve found the hostage. Well—I think it’s him.”

 _‘He’s talking to the military. He’s talking to the fucking military,’_ Will thought, the sudden realisation that he was going to be rescued causing his stomach to twist and churn. This was real. He was being rescued. 

The man not talking looked at him in obvious alarm. “Fuck.” His rifle was still pointed at Will’s face. 

“We’re going to need get this guy to a hospital stat—he’s a mess.” The man talking to the military knelt down and bunched the sweater on Will’s left shoulder to reveal his bare skin. “He has the scar on his shoulder, but we need a secondary identification mark.”

“Sir, don’t move,” the man with the rifle instructed. 

“I have a scar on my palm. It’s in my file,” Will said, trying to show them where the Lecters had stolen his soul. 

“Sir, I don’t understand what you’re saying. Help is on the way.”

The other man was touching the bottom of his feet. “Okay, he has the marks on his feet. It’s him.”

The rifle was lowered and Will began to cry in relief, reaching up to them desperately with both hands.

“Mr Graham, you’re going to be okay. We’re taking you home. Don’t talk, okay. You have sustained major facial injuries.”

Will choked as blood began running down the back of his throat and the man who’d had the rifle pointed at him, cursed. 

“Fuck he’s going to drown.” 

“Anything broken? Just gimme a thumbs up.”

Will gave the thumbs down and suddenly found himself hoisted up and thrown over the man’s shoulder. He felt blood running out of his mouth and down onto the ground, pooling in a small, dark puddle. 

“Cover me,” one of the men said to the other.

“Bravo Kilo-Five and Whiskey Lima-One bringing in hostage.” Will realised he was upside down and listening to a quick assessment of the situation. “Hostage has sustained severe blood loss and a major facial injury—knife wounds, blade still in place. Whiskey Lima-One is bringing him in.”

The man leading them to safety spoke once more. “Hold on, Graham—we’re taking you home!”

There was still gunfire and Will could hear the men talking into their communicators, using jargon that he didn’t quite understand, that was masked by the sound of helicopter, the bright lights shining across the sand, or was that the full moon overhead? 

Will’s last conscious thought was of how his blood looked on the beach…

*****

Hannibal had thought nothing of Jack receiving a call as they travelled to the awards dinner; he’d been considering treating himself to a new tie, something monochromatic in its weft, a rich midnight blue as apposed to the indigo he currently had in his collection. Suddenly he felt someone grabbing his knee and the smell of Jack’s adrenaline filled the small space of the vehicle; Hannibal looked over quickly and Jack’s eyes were wide.

“Hannibal—he’s okay. He’s alive.”

Hannibal nodded slowly, feeling something painful well up inside him. “Cancel my appearance and have Bedelia present the medals. I’m going where ever he is,” he said, and he knew there would be no argument from anyone.

“Do you want me to get Abigail on the line?” Miss Mapp said as she began to pull out her phone and there was a small hitch in her voice. 

Hannibal nodded, unable to speak. He could hear her giving a relieved laugh affected by crying and he smiled, brushing away an errant tear. He was no swept up in the others’ emotions, but his own; as his assistant handed him the phone, he debated with himself if he wished to display further reaction to the news in front of those around him.

“Darling—“

“Please don’t tell me he’s dead.” Her voice sounded so small and helpless.

“He’s been found. He’s coming home.”

The noise his daughter made was one he couldn’t name, just the emotion of elation and relief. In the years to come, he was never certain if he’d ended the call or if she had, just that he was suddenly putting his phone away and her insistence that she’ll join him wherever they’re needed, all blurred together. As he handed the phone off to Mapp, he looked back at Jack, who was still on the phone, relaying information in a stunted fashion. 

“They—the White House got a call from him an hour ago and—“ Jack held up a finger for him to wait as he was told more. “They just got him out of Key West—“

“Where was he?” Hannibal wanted to know specifics. 

“Marathon, Florida.”

“Florida,” Hannibal murmured, looking back out the window. A thought hit him and he turned to Jack. “Have his medication waiting and ready so that the moment he’s out of surgery we can begin treating the encephalitis.”

Hannibal could appreciate the irony that yet again he was being denied the opportunity to truly experience and savour the fullness of Will’s illness, but judging 

Besides, it would draw too much attention to himself not to immediately pursue Will’s treatment. 

“On it,” his Chief of Staff said, relaying the information back into the phone.

“We’re going to Bethesda, Mr President,” Agent Katz replacement informed him, listening to her earpiece.

Hannibal nodded and turned to his assistant. “Miss Mapp, if you would inform the First Lady that she may join us when Will arrives, please. Tell her that the location is still undecided and in one hour, please inform her that we shall meet at Bethesda.”

Abigail would be too emotional if she was allowed to join them immediately, and he had little patience for that, as much as he loved her. No, it would be best to evaluate the situation before she arrived so that he could pick the right plan to put in place. The motorcade was finally able to change directions and Hannibal could picture Bedelia’s face as she was being informed at this moment that he would not be in attendance of the dinner. She would handle the matter with all the grace her upbringing had gifted her, but inside she would be molten loathing for Will.

The drive between Washington DC and Bethesda was a short one as there was only a six and a half mile difference from their currant location to the Naval base; as Hannibal sat in the idling motorcade, he began to have the necessary arrangements for Will’s return made: the medication for his encephalitis was due to arrive confidentially to the hospital, the housekeeping staff was to set up the Queen’s Guest Bedroom to accommodate company, and Hannibal was to be cleared by Bethesda medical staff for treating Will alongside the other doctors present, _no exceptions_. 

The SWAT helicopter that had carried Will had flown him immediately to Naval Air Station Key West where a medically equipped jet had been waiting; it launched itself to Bethesda, Maryland at breakneck speeds, the attendants aboard beginning the process of careful treatment for the man who’d survived through such a harrowing ordeal.It was a two hour wait for Hannibal and then Will was suddenly there, returned to him. The stretcher was lifted down the steps of the plane, three attendants holding up the banana bags filled with various fluids to hydrate and supply blood to the injured man. Hannibal left his seat in the secured vehicle and escorted Will to the waiting ambulance that would get them to the hospital; there was construction to service the runway by chance this week and it meant that the plane had been forced to land further away than usually required. But Hannibal didn’t mind. It bought him more time to be alone with Will before he was taken into surgery. 

Hannibal climbed into the back of the ambulance, breathing in deeply the smell of blood and antiseptic. Agent Price was left to straddle Will’s narrow stretcher, his hands on the ceiling of the ambulance as he tried to keep his balance while the vehicle began its crawling pace around to the other entrance of the Bethesda. There was a white terry cloth towel draped over Will’s face, absorbing enough blood to make both sides wet. An oxygen mask had been placed over Will’s mouth and nose, beneath the towel and Hannibal held one of the saline bags aloft, recalling that only a few months before, he’d been doing this with a bag of his own blood.  

Curiosity overwhelmed him and he reached out to remove the towel so that he could inspect Will. “May I—“

The EMT blocked Hannibal’s hand. “I wouldn’t.”

“What—“

Hannibal hated being interrupted, but at this moment, information was far more important and he very generously overlooked the man’s manners. 

“His face has been severely damaged. Had a bowie knife still stuck in the left side. Not sure what the damage is to his nerves or eye. Everything got butchered up, so we don’t know if it’s serious.” The EMT looked uncomfortable. “It doesn’t look like him anymore.

“I see,” was Hannibal’s reply.

Will had a hospital gown draped over him for modesty’s sake and Hannibal itched to pull it off him so he could analyse and memorise what had happened to the one he loved. At least after Will had been treated for his injuries, Hannibal would be allowed to take Will back to the White House, where he had full intentions of keeping him in one of the stately guest rooms, during which time he could explore Will’s body at his leisure.  

“He’s unresponsive,” the EMT at Will’s head stated.

“He’s in shock,” Hannibal agreed.

The hospital gown was a nondescript white with minute grey diamonds in a tight pattern; it was worn in a few areas and Hannibal wondered off-handedly how many people had died while wearing it. 

He watched the steady rise and fall of Will’s chest, assured that the man was at least breathing on his own; the extra oxygen was no doubt a blessing to Will’s recovery.

“Blood loss?” Hannibal enquired.

“Nothing like what he experienced back in September, but he’s in terrible condition, so even a small amount isn’t good for him.” They’d already received Will’s medical files in anticipation of the care he’d need.

“He’s skin and bones. They were all but starving him,” the second EMT stated.  

The EMT by Will’s head seemed dissatisfied with the condition of the towel on Will’s face and began to remove it. He gestured to the biohazard bag attached to the wall of the ambulance by Hannibal’s right elbow.

“Hand me that?”

Hannibal assisted and as the blood soaked cloth was removed from Will’s very damaged face, Hannibal saw the younger man’s eyelids twitching.

“Will, this is Hannibal. Can you hear me?”

Will’s eyes fluttered open and Hannibal could see his mouth moving; quickly he pulled back the oxygen mask to the protest of the EMTs, handing the saline bag over to Price, and leaned his head in to catch the mangled words Will was whispering past the bloody froth.

“Strangers when we meet.”

Hannibal placed the oxygen mask back in place and as the EMT readied the new towel that was to be placed over Will’s face, Hannibal murmured in the most tender Lithuanian he could manage, _“You are mine. Is there anyone who cannot recognise what’s theirs?”_

Will’s eyes shut once more and Hannibal leaned back. He knew Will didn’t understand what he’d said, though he was certain that the sentiment was obvious, something even a language wouldn’t act as a barrier to. 

“What’s he saying?” the EMT asked.

“He wanted to know if he was hallucinating. I told him that this is real and he’s safe.” 

At the hospital, they were accepted immediately with Marines standing in place for security. This time around, he remembered himself and didn’t attempt to join Will in surgery, though he did follow as far as the surgeons would allow and then he was allowed to get into scrubs and accompany them to the actual operating theatre. From a cosmetics viewpoint, the surgery was terrible, simply a slap together job to keep everything in place, but Hannibal wasn’t looking to have Will returned to his original appearance. No, he wanted to see the scars of this ordeal for the rest of their lives and he smiled behind his mask until his own face hurt.

The amount of damage to Will was appalling, and Hannibal felt a rising anger at the knowledge someone had done all of it to Will and Hannibal would have no real revenge in the form of long suffering. At least his family would have the peace of knowing there would be no trial, so long as the SWAT team did their job. 

Hannibal assisted in small areas during the operation, relieving nurses as they retrieved more items, stitching together the lacerations on Will’s tongue. He’d tried to find a way that would allow for Will to have his blood a second time, but alas, Bethesda had done a blood drive earlier in the day, and there was no circumstance that the Secret Service would allow him to contribute to Will yet again.  

When Hannibal finally left the surgery to speak with the Secret Service, he was met with some strange reactions and Katz’s replacement for the day went to retrieve a paper cup of hot water and a lemon verbena tea bag, which was placed in his hands. Margot Verger approached him, seeming to be the only one who wasn’t going to give him vague answers to his questions. 

“President Lecter.” She nodded her head to the side, indicating she wanted to speak to him privately.

He followed her to a small alcove that hosted a bulletin board, taking a sip of the hot tea. “What is it, Margot?”

“When the medics were getting Will prepped on the medivac up here, they took precautions that everything would be evidence and bagged it all.” Hannibal could smell her fear. “When we accepted the evidence bags, Jimmy noticed Will’s sweatpants were still bleeding.”

What was she trying to say? “I don’t understand.” 

Her eyes darted nervously, looking for any indication that someone might be listening. “We found something in the sweatpants’ pocket.”

‘Something’ was troubling the agent and in the paternal voice Hannibal had mastered, he said softly, “You can tell me, Margot.”

Her eyes met his. “It was a human kidney.”

///***///

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +The YMCA is a dance/song made popular by The Village People. The arm gestures spell out the letters and are 
> 
> +Hannibal’s Lithuanian reply to Will is actually dialogue from the show “ᄉᄐ흘/The City Hall” by the character Jo Gook.
> 
> +Thank you everyone for staying with me for Season Two of the Aristocrats! All of your comments and support have meant so much. Season Three shall start shortly!


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